Of a Kind
by Risu Yoru
Summary: A series of lost moments between Alistair and Lady Aeducan. Oh, and some Morrigan for that zingy flavor. Work in Progress.
1. Chapter 1: Stranger in a Strange Land

Of a Kind

a Dragon Age fanfic by Risu Yoru

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Mainly because I spend my time playing video games and not recognizing my full potential.

Summary: Lost moments between Alistair and Aeducan (or, y'know, moments that had me shaking my monitor, demanding for them to be seen but noooooo).

Warnings: I like sap. And fluff. And angst. And this is a Work In Progress. And there /will/ be spoilers.

Chapter One: Stranger in a Strange Land

"Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it."

~Jerome Jerome

**Ostagar****:**

Y'know, in all fairness, Alistair hadn't expected the new recruit to be…well…_pretty. _

Not that there was any reason why she shouldn't have been, mind you! He was completely open-minded as to the prettiness or non-prettiness potential of his fellow Grey Wardens. Really, as long as they could wield a stabby weapon of choice, his fellow Wardens could be as ugly as mules for all he cared (and come to think of it, a lot of them were. Like, a _lot _of them.) So Alistair should maintain Grey Warden professionalism and not even factor the physical appearance of a recruit into his personal assessment of their character or prowess or whatever.

Buttttttt…wellllll…when one is told that the latest recruit from Duncan's apparent Quest to Wardenize Ferelden hails from Orzammar…look, Alistair had seen dwarves before. A few of them had worked under Arl Eamon at Redcliffe. They. Were. Not. Pretty. Those dwarves sported thick beards and huge noses and always smelled of soot and ale. They were nice enough folk, he supposed—they had never swatted him for playing in the smithy or chided him or anything like that. In fact, they had seemed content to ignore him (which is awesome when you're five and enjoy running with shearers). But, really. Those Redcliffe dwarves? Not pretty.

However, the dwarf that accompanied Duncan back to Ostagar? She was actually…quite…pretty. In a miniaturized, delicate, tiny-person type way. To be honest, Alistair had not realized she was a dwarf when she introduced herself. Maybe one of the soldiers from Highever brought a sibling with them (okay, okay, a _short _sibling) or maybe she was under a spell that shrank her to give her better access to crippling the knees of darkspawn or…something. But this beardless, delicately-featured, tiny (and pretty!) person a dwarf?

A pretty _dwarf?? _

_She _was Duncan's newest and final recruit before the battle??

"I should've recognized you right away! I apologize," Alistair had said, wondering if the Maker would strike him with lightning for the white lie. The Maker didn't. The Maker must've understood. The dwarf—

_Lana! _he corrected himself, _She introduced herself as Lana._

_Lana_ hadn't noticed his slight discomfort either. Instead she had smiled and told him that she looked forward to traveling with him. Which, you know, was almost as shocking as her being a dwarf. Even Duncan got irritated with him when they traveled together. By the third day, someone was always threatening to have a mage magic his voice away. Or worse.

But back to the present, here was Alistair, in the Wilds, with a pickpocket, a whiny knight, and a pretty dwarf. There was darkspawn blood and Grey Warden treaties to find and that was a far more noble thing to think about than all the mutterings of Daveth about how the pretty dwarf—_Lana!!—_was just the perfect height for—

"That is the most vile and disgusting notion I have ever heard," said the Redcliffe knight—what was his name? Jerky? Jassy? Borey? No, Jory! That was it! Jory.

Daveth just grinned (and when was he not grinning? Alistair wondered), and held up his hands in a mock helpless gesture, "Well, what can I say, ser knight?" he asked, "I'm just a fellow!"

Ser Jory did not grin back. In fact, Alistair doubted that the man's facial features were at all capable of contorting themselves into something that could resemble a grin. In their brief travels together, Alistair had come to realize that Jory had the sense of humor of a log. A dead log, at that.

"You should still have some basic respect for a fellow recruit," Jory was saying. Well, no, not so much _saying _as _lecturing. _Jory and the Revered Mother sounded as though they could be the best of pals,"I'm sure she worked very hard to impress Duncan enough into recruiting her."

"Of that I have no doubt," Daveth said and tipped Alistair a _huge _wink, "What about you, Warden ser? What's your opinion on…" Daveth trailed off and blinked. He looked left. He looked right. He then looked at Alistair, his expression extremely confused, "Oy. Where is our Dwarf of the Hour? Am I too tall? Can I not see her?"

"Daveth!" Jory snapped.

"What? It's an honest question!"

"It's rude!"

"She's short!"

The two of them continued to bicker, but Alistair ignored them. Daveth was right. Where _was _the dwa—Lana. Where was Lana? She couldn't have already been eaten by a darkspawn, could she? He would have been able to sense that. Did a wolf or Chasind or whatever else was living out here swoop down and pluck her up as a tasty treat? How would he explain to Duncan that his final recruit had been reduced to wolf kibble or worse? Had she just wandered off and they not seen her? Was she short enough for that or was there indeed foul play?

Alistair drew his long sword, which immediately shut up both Daveth and Jory, "Stay here," he said quietly. Maker bless them, they just nodded and cast their own wary glances about the forest. Alistair began to backtrack, doing his best to ignore his inner-Duncan that was chastising him for leaving recruits out alone in a darkspawn infested forest.

_They cannot sense the darkspawn. They will have no warning of an attack. They are your responsibility, Alistair. You have to prepare them for the Joining tonight. This is your duty. You cannot abandon it or them. You have to--_

_Well, I already lost one five minutes from camp, _he groused. _What am I _supposed _to do?_ He still was sensing no darkspawn, but well…he had only been a Warden himself for six months. Maybe he couldn't sense them in small numbers yet. Maybe his senses needed fine-tuned. Maybe he was just overwhelmed by all the other life in the forest. Could that be it? Were his Warden senses stifled? Or you know, maybe—

Waitaminute.

"By the Maker…" he murmured, slipped the sword back into its sheath, "Really?"

Across the clearing, Lana stood still by the gates leading to Ostagar. Actually, she was leaning up with her back against the gates, looking extremely confused.

She wasn't the only one.

"Are you…okay?" Alistair called to her, "Did you see something or…something?"

Her head shot up at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide and…fearful? Alistair wasn't sure. But for a moment—just a moment—he saw a terrified woman, looking extremely out of place in her battered iron armor. But the next second, the terror was replaced by an embarrassed smile and well, the armor didn't look quite so dented and pitted. It's not like she had encountered any monsters or anything out here yet. What was there to be scared of?

"I'm sorry!" she called back, and Alistair could see her flushing from across the clearing, "It's just…all these plants. Do you just walk on them?"

Alistair was even more confused. There were some trees by the gate, but why would she be asking if trees were for walking? Surely, even in _Orzammar_ they knew what trees were. They had to, right? They traded in wood. Did the dwarves think wood just _sprang _into existence, all pulpy and splintery?

"The plants!" she repeated, pointing to the ground, "I've never seen so much of this!"

Alistair still couldn't tell what she was looking at. Not the trees, they were over there. There were a few wild flowers about and some cattails by the marsh, but Lana was still _by the sodding gate_ and—

And just like that, it clicked.

"You mean the grass?"

Lana nodded, managing to flush even brighter, "Duncan and I stayed primarily on the roads when we left Orzammar," she said, "Is there a…secret step or something you surfacers do to avoid smashing so many plants?"

_Surfacers. _Just something about the way she said it. As if he were the stranger in the world and it was perfectly normal to question grass-walking etiquette. Really, who put thought behind whether or not it was acceptable to walk on _grass?_

But then again, how much grass was in Orzammar?

"No, no secret," Alistair said as he walked across the small clearing, "Just crash and smash to your heart's content. It's quite therapeutic actually."

Lana was still piled up against the gate, trying not to crush more grass blades than she had to. She still looked slightly wary.

Alistair put on his Most Charming Grin and held out his hand, "I promise you—you have not lived until you've trampled across a grassy field on a summer's day."

And for a moment, just a moment, Alistair is not in the Wilds, holding out his hand to a nervous dwarf, but he is instead in Redcliffe, covered in mud and running for everything he is worth. He can hear Teagan, also covered in mud, crashing along and cursing behind him, but he doesn't care. He will not go to the Chantry, he will not, he will not, _he will not!_ and if he has to run pell-mell without his shoes across Ferelden, well _that's just the way it is going to be SO THERE._

Lana's small gloved hand slipped into his own, snapping him back to the present. She smiled shyly at him, but oh bless the Maker, she also stepped away from the gate. She took a tentative step, winced as though she expected the grass to cry out in pain, and then gave a small laugh when nothing happened.

Alistair grinned, "See? Trample and crush. Now…why don't we find Ser Patronizer and Ser Pervert and get on with your Joining then, eh?"

Lana nodded and began to stride purposefully across the clearing, towards the marshes. Alistair suppressed a small feeling of amazement at her complete attitude shift. Unbelievable.

He also suppressed a small sigh of disappointment when she let go of his hand. But who could fault him for that? She was, after all, a very pretty dwarf.


	2. Chapter 2: Small Kindness

Chapter Two: Small Kindness

"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."

~Aesop

**Tower of Ishal:**

_Do you feel like you are not living up to your full potential? Do you wish to do something _big _with your life? Something important? Special? Do you want your death to _mean _something?_

_Do you just want…MORE?_

_Then, luck be with you my friend! _Come_ and join the Grey Wardens today! Drink tainted blood! Choke on it! Die! Or don't! There are so many opportunities for a young person within Grey Warden ranks! For an example, an accepted recruit can…_

_Become an hors d'oeuvre for darkspawn!_

_Give practical advice to monarchs that which is then ignored! Blatantly ignored!_

_Be ostracized by polite society!_

_Deliver important messages! Like REALLY important messages! EXTREMELY important!_

_AND SO MUCH MORE!_

_Don't miss out! Find your nearest Grey Warden and demand to have your chance at that Chalice! SIGN UP TODAY!!!_

_-----------------_

The Battle for Ostagar. Probably _the _most pivotal, vital and important battle for Ferelden in the past four hundred years, and what was the role Duncan had assigned Alistair?

Messenger.

Once again, Alistair was the sodding messenger. If it wasn't Duncan, it was the Revered Mother and if it wasn't the Revered Mother, it was a senior Warden, and if it wasn't a senior Warden, it was someone from the regular army, and if it…well. Needless to say, the entire camp had seen fit to saddle Alistair with messages to be delivered from one side to the other. And now, a scant hour before The Battle, his services were being employed for yet another message—this one from King Cailan to Teryn Loghain.

_Charge._

Well, at least he wouldn't be alone. Duncan had seen fit to leave him with the newest recruit for company. The pretty dwarf…

"So, Lana…" Alistair said as casually as he could, "Do you think the bards will remember to footnote us in when they write of this battle? 'The Noble Grey Wardens Who Held the Torch'?"

Lana said nothing. Alistair wasn't surprised. She had been quiet ever since she awoke from her Joining and realized she was the sole survivor. When Duncan had given them their—well, Alistair hated to call it an "assignment" because "assignment" involved _doing something..._maybe "task"?Would that work? Yes, when Duncan gave them their _task_, she just nodded and agreed with whatever was said. No protests. No whining. Just quiet acceptance that Alistair found slightly startling. Weren't all dwarves supposed to revel in the glory of killing darkspawn? Wasn't that a dwarven livelihood or something?

_Isn't that the Grey Warden livelihood? _asked a small bitter voice.

Alistair ignored it and continued to prattle, "That's quite a song title, don't you think? 'Noble Grey Wardens'…can you think of anything that rhymes with 'torch'? I mean, there's 'porch' and 'scorch' and, I dunno...maybe 'dork'?...we need to find a bard after this is over or something--"

"We need to go, Alistair."

And there was just _something_ about her calm tone and the calm way she slipped her shield over her arm and the calm way she began to walk away from Duncan's fire that just irritated the hell out of him. He didn't know _why_, exactly. He doubted it was Lana, but more the promise of Honor! Glory! and The Chance to Do Something Important! being taken from him YET AGAIN (this has got to be Duncan's doing, it HAS to be, he's the only one who knows The Secret, he's the one keeping Alistair out of the fighting because it's _perfectly acceptable _to let the legitimate Theirin fight and endanger himself but Maker forbid that Alistair be given a chance to prove himself worthy of just being Alistair…) and then the words just flew from his mouth before he had a chance to stop them, "We still have time to stop at the Quartermaster's if you'd like to freshen up. Y'know, find a suitable shield or some armor without rust spots…we can look nice for the other guardsmen. They can put that in the ballad too."

Lana stopped.

And Alistair knew, just knew, he had said something particularly awful.

"I did stop at the Quartermaster's," she said quietly, "I pulled this armor off of a corpse in the Deep Roads. It was all I could find…Harro—someone…they gave me a sword before my exile, and a shield but the shield shattered…and there were no merchants on the way here, so the first place I went when we arrived at camp was the Quartermaster's…" Lana finally turned. Alistair found himself taking a step back. He wasn't sure what the expression in her eyes was—anger, fear, sorrow…some terrible combination of all three—but it made him uneasy all the same.

"Alistair," Lana said evenly, "The Quartermaster here has nothing in _my size."_

And y'know, Alistair was wondering why she would wear armor so pitted and dented and _rusted_ for a foray into the Wilds or why she carried a shield but rarely used it and the answer was just so sodding obvious that he felt like an idiot. And now everyone else in camp has marched off to battle to man their positions and here he is, angering the only companion he has because he can't put two seconds worth of thought behind anything he says. Why would the Quartermaster have any dwarven-made (or at least dwarven-sized) armor or shields? It's not like there was a dwarven militia near Ostagar.

Just Lana.

"Oh," Alistair said dumbly.

Lana glowered at him for another moment, before she resumed walking back towards the bridge. And somehow, in the light of the abandoned campfires, her armor just looked that much more pitiful. More dented. More threadbare—

--_she pulled that off of a corpse—_

And that elm shield she carried was far too large for her…

"Wait!" Alistair called after her.

He didn't expect her to stop. By the Maker, he would never have stopped if their positions had been reversed. But she did. She even turned around to look at him again. This time he could read the expression in her eyes—sadness.

Alistair pulled out his pack and jogged across the short distance between them, "Let me see your shield," he said and he pulled some more bandages out, "I have an idea."

Lana didn't question him, but did hand over the shield. Alistair kneeled down and began to wrap the bandages around the shield grips.

"What are you doing?" Lana asked.

Alistair just grinned, "I once knew a small-boned arlessa," he said, "Her rings never fit, so she used thread."

Lana crinkled her brow in confusion. Alistair continued to wrap the grips, "Just trust me."

After a few moments (and all of his bandages, but it's not like they were going to see any fighting anyways), Alistair handed the shield back to the dwarf, "There!" he said proudly, "Now you can smash me in the face the next time I say something stupid and not have to worry about your shield flying hither and yon."

Lana slipped her arm through the grips and while the shield was still too large for her, it now rested firmly against her arm. No wobbling. She flexed her arm and smiled, "I can use this…" she whispered in amazement, "…thank you…"

Alistair felt a slightly dorky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Sure thing. Now, let's get to the Tower, eh? We've got a ballad to star in."


	3. Chapter 3: Stopping for Death

Chapter Three: Stopping for Death

"It is not the experience of today that drives us mad; it is remorse or bitterness for something which happened yesterday and the dread of what tomorrow may bring."

~Unknown

In all honesty, being dead wasn't that bad.

DYING had been pretty awful, what with the darkspawn appearing JUSTLIKETHAT! and completely spoiling their victory over that ogre. Five arrows to the chest hadn't helped matters, either. From the corner of his eye, Alistair had seen Lana fall. He meant to go to her, to help her, he really did, but his punctured lungs were too busy collapsing and he, y'know, had to concentrate on dying himself.

But that had all been the hard part. Once the dying was over and done with, death itself? Really not that bad. It was kind of…warm and fuzzy. Like the big green blanket some pitying Redcliffe servant gave him when Isolde made him sleep out in the stables. He used to wrap up in that blanket with the golem doll the arl had given him in happier times and Life didn't seem quite so terrible. And really, if child-Alistair could bravely face the wreck his life became post-Isolde, surely adult-Alistair could face Death the same way. At the very least, this death seemed to be a much better fate than the grim grimness Duncan prophesized about after his Joining. No claustrophobic Deep Roads, no overwhelming darkspawn hoards, no going down fighting and blah blah blah. The beacon was lit. Loghain's men would've charged and the Blight was ended now. Everyone was living happily ever after (except for Alistair because he was now dead and all), and All Was As It Should Be.

Right?

…_the Beacon was lit. They carved through a slew of darkspawn—__**and a sodding OGRE**__—to earn their place in history. Any moment now, the horns from the Teryn's army would sound and the charge would be under way…the Blight was ending._

_Alistair turned to Lana…he wasn't sure why…maybe to make a stupid quip or suggest they head out to the battle or to tell her that even though her hair was matted and her pitiful armor was stained with blood, she was still so pretty…he never got a chance due to the massive oak doors leading to the Beacon collapsing—__**oak doors!**__—and at least a dozen darkspawn piled in…before Alistair could raise his shield or blink or swear or anything, five arrows had slammed into his chest, piercing through his armor…and he wanted to shrug it off like a Legendary Grey Warden should…he wanted to seize his sword and ignore the pain and kill these darkspawn just as they had killed so many others on the way here…but there was just no strength to fight with…_

…_beside him, he saw Lana go down and he wanted to go to her to do…something…provide comfort to a friend dying in a strange land or…something…but it was too late…too late…too late…_

**WHACK!**

"Get up, boy. You've laid about long enough."

And just like that, the warm fuzzy feeling of being dead evaporated. Instead he was laying on something cold and hard—definitely the floor of someplace--and the face of the oldest, ugliest woman in existence was hovering above him. Alistair would've screamed had he the energy. But as it was, his chest _hurt _(as did his face…had he been slapped?)_, _the floor was sodding cold, and well…he recognized the woman. He groaned.

The old woman sniffed disdainfully, "Quit acting like a boy who doesn't want to go to lessons. My hut is small and you are taking up much needed floor space."

"My reward for death is to spend eternity with a Witch of the Wilds. Fantastic." Gingerly, Alistair sat up. The arrows he remembered slamming into his chest were gone…as was his armor. Eternity with a Witch of the Wilds while in _his small clothes._ The day just kept getting better and better, "What happened?"

"What happened?" the old woman repeated, stepping over him to mind something on the bed. (The bed?? She had a bed but left him on the floor?? By the Maker…)

"Yessssssssssss," Alistair said, nodding slowly, "Big battle? King? Darkspawn? Blight? Is it over?"

The old woman actually laughed. Alistair began to wonder if he should just scoot under the bed and hide. He'd probably have a much better luck with the monsters down there then the witch out here, "My dear boy…your battle is ended, fear not. But the darkspawn won."

Alistair felt the blood drain from his face, "What?" he whispered, "But…but the Beacon! The Teryn! It's not possible! They couldn't have lost!"

The woman paused in her…whatever she was doing. Bandaging? Knitting? Something like that, "All things are possible, lad," she said softly, "You would be wise to remember that. Your…teryn? is that the word? Your teryn quit the field. Your king and fellow Wardens are dead."

So matter-of-fact. _"Your king and fellow Wardens are dead." _Alistair wanted to curse her, call her a liar, do _something. _He had no reason to believe anything this old woman (who was probably an apostate and everyone knew apostates lied) said. Loghain's plan had been infallible! Losing the Battle of Ostagar was simply unthinkable!

But somehow he knew, Alistair just knew, that the woman was speaking the truth. He realized it made no sense for him to believe her, but all the same…what could she possibly gain by lying to him?

"I pulled you and your companion from the Tower," she was saying, "There is work for you to do, after all."

"…companion…?" Alistair said dumbly and suddenly had an overwhelming urge to see what (who) was on the bed. Never minding his aching chest or modesty, he struggled up to his feet…

…and there was Lana, looking smaller and paler than he had ever seen her.

But alive.

Alistair stared, transfixed, "…are there…are there others…?"

The old woman turned to him, her face unreadable, "No," she said curtly, "Just the two of you."

Alistair felt a small, nervous flutter begin in his chest. He wanted to hyperventilate. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Everything in his vision seemed to be coming in at too sharp a focus. Everything was too bright. Everything hurt to look at. The room was at a wrong angle. All the details were magnified. Everything was just wrong.

The king was dead. The other Wardens…Duncan...was dead.

The Blight had not been stopped.

And yet here he was, in some batty old woman's hut, still alive. The last of the Grey Wardens…possibly the only Warden left in Ferelden.

Well, no. Lana was also a Grey Warden. Had been for what? all of thirty five minutes? Now he was the senior Grey Warden and if (when) she awoke, she'd expect a strategy or a plan or _something_. She was dwarven—she'd want to fight, right? Fight to the bitter end? She'd expect him to suddenly possess Duncan's wisdom and just lead away to victory against the Blight.

Alistair gripped the bedsheets as he stared down into her pale face. _…by the Maker, she looks so delicate…_ and in that moment, the puppy-love crush he had been nursing ever since Lana had introduced herself to him evaporated. Duncan was dead. The other Wardens were dead. He was alone and all he had to help him battle the Blight was an exiled dwarf.

It wasn't fair.

The old woman had stopped with her ministrations. She watched Alistair, waiting for…who knew what. A bold proclamation of defiance against the darkspawn hoard and the Blight itself, probably.

"You stupid hag," Alistair murmured. He turned away from the bed and sank to the floor, cradling his face in his hands, "You stupid hag…you saved the wrong Wardens."


	4. Chapter 4: What's in a Name?

Author's Note: Well, not so much Alistair/Aeducan as "wookit da puppy!"…

Thank you for the very kind reviews, everyone! :)

Chapter Four: What's in a Name?

"There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face."

~Ben Williams

This had been going on for at least twenty minutes.

"Nibbles?"

"No."

"Nipper?"

"No."

"Jasper?"

"No."

Ever since their party had stumbled across a mabari fleeing a ragtag group of darkspawn, the idiot and the dwarf _would not shut up. _

"Kaiser?"

"That's a bread roll. No."

"Paisley?"

"No."

"Puck?"

"No."

Morrigan was not sure how much more of this she could take. After their little darkspawn skirmish, the idiot had been silent for roughly five to ten seconds before asking what the dwarf planned to name her newly-imprinted fleabag. And the dwarf had looked so confused and said something about having a nug once (whatever _that_ was) which had escaped and her father's cooks had served nugloaf later that day… So, she really didn't understand why she should call the dog anything but Dog.

But, oh, that idiot her mother had rescued just couldn't let that be. _You can't just call a dog 'Dog,' _he had said, _It's like national law or something. Here, what about…_and with that, the two of them were off and talking. And talking. And talking.

Morrigan was seriously considering shifting into another form so she would not have to listen to this inane banter.

Or, at the very least, she could messily devour the idiot and just be rid of him.

"Tank?"

"No."

"Cuddles?"

"No."

"Fang?"

"No."

"Nipper?"

"No."

"Wags?"

"No."

How much longer were the two of them going to keep up this ridiculous back and forth? The entire journey to Lothering? That was at least another two hours at this pace!

"Derby?"

"No."

"Stubbles?"

"No."

"Hoover?"

"No."

"Iggy?"

"No."

Morrigan realized she was grinding her teeth together. Why had she wanted to leave the Wilds? Was this _stupidity_ really that much an improvement over living in the hut with her mother? Flemeth did have her…irritating…habits, but at least Morrigan could take leave of her and find some peace. Now, she had no place to go except Lothering and that was no guarantee that this idiotic prattle would end.

"Paddington?"

"…no."

"Harpo?"

"No."

"Jingles?"

"No."

Enough. Really, this was enough.

Morrigan slammed the butt-end of her staff into the ground, sending up a small yet dazzling display of sparks. Both the idiot and the dwarf were silenced. Well, the dwarf had the manners to be silent. The idiot was fumbling for his sword, probably intending to take off her head and be rid of the "apostate threat."

Morrigan was not going to give him the opportunity.

"The hound's name," she said with a calmness she most certainly did NOT feel, "is Chopper. Now, may we please resume our travels in peace?"

The idiot stopped reaching for his sword. Instead, he was looking at Morrigan with something akin to…was that awe?

"That's…brilliant!" he cried and Morrigan began to murmur the chant that would turn her to her spider form. She was going to eat him. There was no way around it. She would transform into a spider, eat him, and go back home.

"Lana, she's brilliant! Chopper! It's perfect! We--well no, not so much 'we' as 'you'—you can teach him to sic! Oooh, you could teach him to sic specific _parts_, and be all 'Chopper, sic hand!' Or 'Chopper, sic arm!' or even, 'Chopper, sic--!_"_

"Enough!" Morrigan cried, breaking her chant. "Just…just, please. Stop."

"But it's a _brilliant _name!" the idiot protested, "I've been rambling on forever and you just randomly pluck the best name out of thin air! How did you do that?"

Morrigan shouldered her staff. All three of them were looking at her curiously—even that mangy furball. And she could have told them about one of the wolf pups she had found once in the Wilds as a child. It had been a small sickly little thing that just appeared from a small grove of trees. It had tottered over to the small rock she sat against and just sort of flumped down into her lap. Its fur had been so soft and so warm and she had lost track of how much time she had spent, simply sitting there, petting the pup…

Unfortunate, because when Flemeth had finally found her after a long search, she had been _furious_. Flemeth ranted at her about being out in the open and anyone could see her and didn't she understand—how could she _not understand that they must remain hidden at all costs??_ And she had grabbed Morrigan by the arm and yanked her up and the pup had tumbled from her lap with a small squeak and Morrigan had bent down to pick the puppy up and take it with her…

And Flemeth had killed the puppy. Mercifully, with a quick bolt of light from her fingertips, but killed all the same. And, much to Morrigan's (and probably Flemeth's) surprise, she found herself starting to cry. Flemeth had dragged her back to the hut, Morrigan hitting and fighting her the entire way…

She could've told them about that puppy and that she understood what it felt like to have an animal _choose_ to be with you and that made naming them easy…but she did not.

Instead, she said, "Dumb luck. A phenomenon you should be quite familiar with, Grey Warden." and she resumed her brisk pace towards Lothering.


	5. Chapter 5: A Special Favor

Chapter Five: A Special Favor

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness."

~John Keats

She found the idiot standing in front of her tent, looking sheepish.

Morrigan sighed. Step outside of camp bounds for a few minutes to gather some herbs and the rubbish just swarmed right in. She'd even set her tent farther back from the others to prevent this kind of contamination. Maybe next time, some wards were called for…? Not that that helped in the here and now. Here the idiot stood, just…_staring _at her.

Morrigan set her pack down next to her small fire. The idiot watched. Morrigan crossed her arms in front of her chest and impatiently drummed her fingers against her arm. The idiot watched. Morrigan narrowed her eyes. The idiot watched.

"**What?**" she finally asked, making no effort to hide the irritation in her voice.

The idiot started a bit and…blushed? By all, the idiot was blushing. Did he want to proposition her? Finally free of the Chantry and templars, had the idiot decided to give in to curiosity and sample something forbidden?

Ugh. Disgusting.

"I…uh…" the idiot stammered as he groped about in his pack, "…well…that is…uh…Morrigan?"

"**What?**"

The idiot fumbled and dropped his pack, "…well, um…" he kneeled and continued his rummaging, "…what….what kind of magic do you know?"

Morrigan couldn't believe it. This…man-child…was to have been a templar? T'was a pity he never took his vows…the Order would have collapsed from the inside out within a few years. It was actually rather remarkable he survived the Joining…but then, Morrigan thought back to the two other companions that the dwarf had with her that day in the Wilds. The idiot was a _vast _improvement over those…persons.

"I know the magical kind of magic, Alistair. **What **do you want?"

"D'you know—aha!" he finally found whatever he had been looking for and stood back up, "D'you know any type of preservation…thing?" he held out his hand to her.

The idiot was holding a rose. …deep red and plucked before it had truly bloomed…without thinking, Morrigan tentatively reached forward and gently stroked the velvety petals.

"I found it in Lothering," the idiot was saying, "I couldn't just leave it. It was so lovely and everything else was just _drowning _in the doom and gloom, so I picked it but I don't want it to wilt which it'll do because it's not like I have a vase on my person or anything like that so I was just wondering maybe you could do some good for a change instead of skulking around and being creepy—"

A tiny blue spark jumped from Morrigan's fingertip into the bloom. The flower glowed an electric blue for a moment and shifted back to red.

"It is done," she said softly.

The idiot blinked, "Oh," he said. "Um…thank you. I suppose. What…uh…what did you do?"

"What you asked," she said bluntly, "Now, will you kindly leave my tent?"

"Right-o, right-o!" the idiot snatched his pack up and slipped the rose back inside, "This is me, going back to the civilized areas of camp! So long, so long!" he slipped the packstrap over his shoulder and started to scurry back towards the main fire and the non-apostate party members.

"Alistair!" Morrigan called, surprising both of them. He turned back to her, clearly confused, "That flower," she nodded towards his pack, "'Tis a gift for our dwarven leader, no?"

The idiot crinkled his brow in confusion, "No," he answered, "Why would she want a flower? It's not like she can smelt it or derive ale from it. She's a _dwarf."_

"But she gave you that sword the Lothering Chantry awarded her."

"Well, of course she did. It's too large for her to wield. Like I said, she's a _dwarf."_

Morrigan just shook her head at him. The idiot took that as a sign and quickly (but bravely) scurried back to the main camp.

"You are quite the fool," Morrigan told his retreating form. She sat down next to her own pack and began to pull out the various herbs she'd collected, "And so is she."


	6. Chapter 6: By the Fireside I

_More Author's Notes: I'm honestly not trying to recap every single nanosecond of the game. This fic is trying to run away from me…the original outline was only seven chapters and hey, it's chapter six with the ending far from sight. I blame Morrigan for butting in (but being awesome while doing so, 'cause hey. It's __**Morrigan**__.) _

_So. Um. Please be patient while Alistair and Lady Aeducan get their prolonged groove on. Because grooving is on the agenda, until it's not._

_Guess that's it for me. Over n' out (and thank you for the very kind reviews!) ~R._

Chapter Six: By the Fireside (I)

"There is peace and rest and comfort in sorrow."

~Soren Kierkegaard

While dream counseling was not considered a Grey Warden specialty, always being prepared certainly was. And to think, the Bitch had snorted at him when Alistair had managed to purchase a kettle and powdered chocolate from that crass Lothering merchant (sodding _twelve silver_ for a water kettle! By the Maker!) But Alistair had known that Lana was due in for some nightmares, so he decided to stock up on Nightmare Relief Supplies. It was one of his scared duties, what with being one of two Grey Wardens and all.

…besides, he still felt slightly guilty about how he acted in Flemeth's (he-had-been-in-_Flemeth's_-hut-oh-gods-have-mercy) hut after the defeat at Ostagar. Even though Lana'd been unconscious, part of him remained terrified that she somehow _knew _what he said. _"…the wrong Wardens…" _While Alistair still wished that he could've been one of the fallen and another, more capable, Warden had survived…he should never have lumped Lana into the same pitiful category. After all, while Alistair felt perfectly content to just grab what supplies they needed in Lothering and go, Lana actually stopped and, well…tried to help. A lost child, an elven family, a qunari murderer…surely their problems paled in comparison to _the oncoming Blight_, but Lana stayed to help just the same.

And what did she have to show for it? Two more members in their quest (apparently she was going to raise the new army of Ferelden up one person at a time), a few sovereigns to rub together, and, oh yes, Alistair's newest and favoritest weapon so far, Oathkeeper. The pretty little dwarf tried to save a doomed village and what had Alistair done? Purchased a kettle.

She'd just been so _kind _to everyone they spoke to in that tiny little village…just so _kind _and _compassionate_…just the epitome of a peacetime Grey Warden…she'd taken on the responsibilities Duncan left for the two of them and didn't flinch. Alistair envied her that strength…

…but at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder how she had come by it.

His kettle gave shrill whistle from the fire hook, interrupting his thoughts. Alistair grabbed the kettle handle, tapped out some of the chocolate powder into a large pewter mug, and stirred. It was slightly more watery than the cocoa he remembered being served at the garrison but…

Alistair stole a quick glance over to Lana. She hadn't moved since his suggestion to pack up camp. She sat on her bedroll, a ratty blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring blankly into the fire.

Alistair looked down at his mug. Well, watery or no, it was needed. So he stood up, stepped around the fire and kneeled just off to Lana's side, holding out the mug.

"Hey," he said softly, "Drink this. It'll help."

She said nothing. Didn't even look at him. But she did take the mug from him and take a tentative sip. And much to Alistair's surprise (and immeasurable relief), she smiled a little.

"…we have something very similar to this in Orzammar…" she said quietly. She wrapped both hands around the oversized mug, but still didn't turn to face him, "It's not sweet, though. It's very bitter and black…the taverns serve huge tankards every morning…it's supposed to cure hangovers…" she took another sip from her mug, "I could never get used to the taste, though."

Alistair settled back into a sitting position that would have been comfortable had he removed his armor first. But he thought they'd be breaking camp and all, so he was just stuck with armor plating jabbing into one side.

"Well, this," he said with a slight nod toward her mug, "is some _bona fide _Grey Warden magic, it is. Guaranteed to cure all your ills and rid you of all your nightmares."

That actually caused her to glance over at him. Just when he was ready to run himself through with Oathkeeper for saying something stupid (**again**), she said, "I've never had a nightmare before." At his extremely confused look, she continued, "Dwarva don't dream the way you surfacers do. I've never had a dream I've remembered in my life," she took a gulp of the cocoa and turned back to the fire, "What a first."

What could he say? "_Oh, well, when I was a child, I had this reoccurring dream about a banshee coming to eat me every night so yeah, I've had nightmare practice. My dreams of the Arch Demon were super scary too, but I guess that pales in comparison to never having had a nightmare before. So, uhhh…how's the rest of your stay on the surface so far?"_

Instead he said, "Can I have a sip of that?"

She smiled her small smile again and handed him the mug. And yeah, it was a bit too watery but still. It was _cocoa._

"D'you miss it?" he asked, "Orzammar, I mean? Because up here had got to be like waking up on the moon or something."

"…or something…" she said with a slight nod. Without asking, Lana took the mug back from him, "…yes…I miss it."

"We could go there first," Alistair offered, "Y'know, for the treaties? One is for Orzammar--" but she was shaking her head.

"I can't go back."

"Why?"

Lana looked as though she were going to say something important. She inhaled deeply, held it for a moment…and then just exhaled, "I can't," she said and handed him back the half-empty mug, "Please don't ask me again."

Alright. Alright. Death by Oathkeeper in the morning if he kept saying stupid things. At the very least, the Bitch would be pleased. Not that pleasing some snippy Witch of the Wilds was high on his priority list, but he would take what victories he could get.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled and stood, ready to make his way back to his tent and bedroll (and praise the Maker, the armor finally stopped jabbing him in the side). He finished off the rest of the cocoa in two large gulps, "G'night," he said and he started to walk off.

"Alistair?"

He paused and turned. Lana was no longer staring into the fire, but looking at him. Not just looking, but _smiling. _True it was her small, sad smile, but a smile was still a smile.

"Thank you," she said.

He mock-saluted her with the empty mug, "Anytime."


	7. Chapter 7:  Memory Lane

Chapter Five: Memory Lane

"The magic of our first love is our ignorance that it can ever end."

~Benjamin Disraeli

_It was an accident._

_Lana always refused the warriors her father sent to tutor her in the art of shield and sword. She found them to be blustery and incompetent—more interested in Being a Tutor to the Princess than to actually _teaching_. She did not have time to pander to their egos. She was Aeducan, after all, and would only train with the best._

_She would only train with Gorim._

_It had taken several years—and several broken bones for the tutors—before her father finally relented. Gorim she wanted. Gorim she got._

_Any concerns that anyone held about Gorim 'going soft' on her were completely unfounded. If he hit her with the shield, she went flying. If she failed to parry or duck, the training sword would smash into her. Her Second showed no favoritism or softness when it came to training Lady Aeducan. And that's what she wanted—to become a fighter that rivaled even her House's Paragon._

_There were whispers, of course. You could go no where in the Diamond Quarter without overhearing some ridiculous rumor or another. Gorim was a spy, sent by one of her brothers to murder her, but her prowess kept thwarting his schemes. She and Gorim were lovers and any bruises Lady Aeducan sported were _not _from sparring sessions. Gorim was actually Aeducan and was fighting to regain the honor stolen from him by this usurper. And so on and so on and so on._

_Lana paid them no mind. She wanted a commission. Nothing else mattered to her except being named a commander. And the only way she would earn what she wanted was to train and fight for it. So she did._

_And then…_

_Gorim's shield had caught her unaware (again), and she fell backwards (again), crashing to the floor mats (again). Gorim fixed her with a stern look (again) and gave her his patented, "Mind your surroundings, my lady," line (again)…and Lana began to giggle. Gorim tried to keep up his serious expression and was successful for about, oh, five seconds, before he began to laugh as well. He sheathed his sword, shouldered his shield and sat down next to her prone (and giggling) form._

"_I think we're done for today, my lady," he said._

_Somehow, that made her giggle all the harder, "You are such an ass," she finally managed to wheeze._

"_Be that as it may, you still block like a nug."_

_Her sides were beginning to hurt (well, one side hurt more considering it had just been whammed by an iron shield). Nothing about their conversation or situation was funny and she just could not stop. She felt flushed, excited, moronic—_

"_I love you."_

…_that stopped the giggles. And her thought processes. And her breathing._

_Gorim continued to sit next to her, calm as ever, as if he had said nothing. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe she was hearing things. Couldn't hurt to check…_

"…_did you say something…?" she managed to whisper._

_Gorim simply raised an eyebrow at her in amusement, "No," he replied, "Did you?"_

_She shook her head. Gorim stood and helped her back to her feet, their sparring session done for that day._

_But it hadn't ended there._

_When she sat in her bedchambers later that night, brushing out her short auburn hair, there had been a note neatly folded on top of her vanity. _

_~I love you~_

_She read those three words over and over again, trying to remember whether or not she'd ever seen Gorim's handwriting before. What a ridiculous thing to contemplate—handwriting! Lana spent most of her waking hours with him and he'd been a constant in her life since they were children but she could not recall seeing him ever write a note. She stared at the paper until her eyes hurt and suddenly with a startled (if belated) gasp, she jammed it into the vanity drawer. _

_Lana couldn't sleep that night._

_The next morning, she sat down for a breakfast of waffle-cakes and nug strips. As she pulled her silverware from her napkin, a small, perfectly cut amethyst fell out and bounced to the floor. Trian and Bhelen were also at the table with her—but Trian never noticed anything until his second cup of java* and Bhelen was too busy reading letters of his own (a particularly steamy letter if the blush rising on his cheeks was any indication). Lana made a small squeak of surprise and quickly snatched the tiny amethyst back up. She quickly checked her napkin for a note. Nothing. _

_But there was one peeking out from her pillow when she returned to her room later. Different paper this time, but the same message: ~I love you~ _

_She crammed the new letter and amethyst in the vanity drawer._

_If Gorim spent his spare time sneaking into her room to leave notes and gems, he gave no sign during their sparring session. He remained as collected as ever, with his "__**grip**__ your shield, my lady; don't just let it hang off your arm" and "don't just swing your sword—be __**precise**__". _

_Lana, on the other hand, was completely __**un**__collected. She managed to drop her sword not once or twice, but an astonishing __**five times.**__ She tried to execute a shield bash—something she'd done perfectly hundreds of times before—and the shield flew off her arm and across the training room. She'd also strapped the sparring armor on too tightly and the buckles were biting into her skin—especially by her knees. She spent more time pulling herself up off the mat than she did actually __**sparring. **__When Gorim's shield knocked her down yet again, Lana—to her utter humiliation—found herself starting to cry._

"_Perhaps that is enough for today, my lady," Gorim said in his infuriatingly calm voice. He shouldered his shield and began to head back towards the changing room, "Same time tomorrow then, or do we have duties in court?"_

"_Do you love me?" Lana blurted._

_Gorim stopped. He turned his head to look at her, his eyes sad, "Does it matter?"_

_Lana wiped at her eyes, embarrassed and miserable, "Stupid question," she muttered, more to herself then to him, "Will you just answer me…?"_

_Gorim studied her for a moment and walked back to her. He kneeled down. Lana fixed him with her best (if tear streaked) glare. Gorim smiled and tucked a few strands of hair back behind her ear, "This will not end well, my lady," he whispered and leaned forward to brush a kiss against her cheek…_

"—and see, here this is Denerim which we definitely want to avoid what with us being on the Ferelden List o'Death—"

Lana blinked furiously as the memory faded. Camp. She was at the party camp. The five of them were gathered around a large, tattered map Alistair had spread by the camp fire. Lana supposed they were trying to figure out a course of action or plan of attack or…something. She'd been too busy lost in her own thoughts when she'd seen the word 'Denerim' etched next to a series of lines and squiggles on the map.

_ I'm going to try to go to Denerim, the human capital. If you make it out, find me.~_

"—Arl Eamon is sure to help us, so I think we can hit Redcliffe first," Alistair was saying, pointing at a spot about as far from Denerim as one could get, "Then we could scurry on over to the Tower here and maybe then Orzammar? Not sure how we're going to find the Dalish, what with them not liking to be found and all…"

"I still say you must eliminate your rogue teryn," Morrigan said, "T'will give you the freedom to parade your treaties about as you wish."

"I'm sure he'll feel oh-so-threatened when he has his _army_ massacre the five of us," Alistair retorted, "If we're lucky, we might live long enough to advance all of three and a half feet in the general direction of the palace."

"There are other ways to kill a man that do not involve the front door," the starry-eyed Chantry sister—Leliana, was it?—said, a dreamy smile on her face.

Alistair stared at her for a moment before shaking his head, "Ohhhhkaaaay."

~_ I will always love you, my lady~_

Back home, after her…exile…had Bhelen gone through her rooms? To keep up his pretense, had Bhelen ordered his guards to tear apart her vanity and chests to see what could've driven an Aeducan to murder her kin? Had he found the notes and the amethyst? Did he…know?

Lana couldn't see how Bhelen could **not** know. True they acted their proper roles in public—Lady Aeducan and Gorim, her Second. But whenever they found a secluded corner, the two of them were exchanging frantic, passionate kisses and whenever she _knew_ that her father and brothers would be late that night…well, surely Bhelen was clever enough to figure out what was what by now.

…he'd been clever enough to figure out many things Lana had put past him.

An armored hand waved in front of her face, "Laaannnaaaaaaa," Alistair was saying, "Helllooooo?"

She shook her head quickly to clear it, "Sorry," she murmured, "Lost in thought…"

"I hope that is not an after-effect of your Joining," Morrigan said, a wicked gleam in her eye, "Alistair also seems to suffer from that affliction as well."

Lana ignored her, hoping Alistair would follow her example. She saw his sword hand twitching towards the hilt, but he did not give in to temptation. Instead, he curled his hand into a fist and turned back to Lana, smiling broadly, "I was just asking where you thought we should start."

And she knew it was a stupid thing to say, by the Stone she _knew_ it, but everything about the surface terrified her. The sky was so far and empty and open and everything was just too big for her to use (she still had the natty armor from the Deep Roads corpse—still!), and everyone was just so tall and those reoccurring nightmares came back night after night (what dwarf has a dream they remember?) and she just wanted to be back home so badly where everything made sense and she could be Commander Aeducan again and not some surface curiosity that couldn't even reach over a tavern counter—

"We need to start in Denerim," Lana said with a certainty she did not feel, "I have an…ally, there."

The camp was silent. Even those strange singing insects—what had Alistair called them? Krik-kuts?—had stopped their…krik-kut noise-making. Everyone stared at her.

"…you do realize that if Loghain knows we're on his doorstep, he'll have us brutally killed? And thrashed? And massacred? And murdered? And all sorts of other horrible words?" Alistair asked.

Lana looked back down at the map_. 'Denerim'_ Gorim was there. And where Gorim was, the Lady Aeducan must be as well. She had to get to him. She _had _to.

She looked back up and met Alistair's eyes. And, to be honest, Lana liked Alistair. She truly did. Oh, he did strike her as somewhat strange looking, what with being twice her size and beardless and by the STONE, his features were so petite and delicate compared to the dwarven men she'd known…but he'd made her smile in this strange land. His jokes were stupid, yes, but it just felt so _good_ to be able to laugh. She just…liked his company. It helped made her exile survivable.

"…please?" she asked quietly.

Alistair was silent for a very long moment. His eyes were clouded and unreadable. Lana clenched her own fists, quite sure of rejection. Tactically, he would be right—going to Denerim would make no sense. Someone would spot them and send out the alarm of 'Kill the Wardens! Kill the Wardens!' But Lana needed to get to Gorim. She _needed _to.

"All right," Alistair sighed, "What's the point of having a bounty on your head if you give no one the chance to collect it? We'll head out, first light."

Lana smiled in relief, _I'm coming for you, Gorim. Just hold on. I'm coming._

_

* * *

_

*=you cannot tell me that with all that ale around, the dwarves do NOT have coffee. Just, no. No, no, no. Lalalala, personal Risu Cannon™, dwarven coffee, alalalalalala!


	8. Chapter 8:  Heartbreak

Chapter Eight: Heartbreak

"Well, you know what they say: 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

"Try it."

~ "Men in Black"

**Denerim:**

So.

The good thing about their little side-trip to Denerim (Alistair refused to acknowledge this excursion as anything but a detour—absolutely _r-e-f-u-s-e-d)_: the Market District. Specifically, _shopping _in the Market District. Even though he was extremely irritated at how they were walking in the **opposite direction of Redcliffe, **Alistair still felt a small tingle of excitement when he saw the gates leading to Denerim. He knew from previous trips that the possibilities of what he could purchase were endless.

A two-hundred-year-old decorative sword crafted from the melted chamber pots of Fort Drakon prisoners? Seen it!

A mabari war harness studded with dragon bone spikes and lined with kitten fur? Seen it!

Pickled frog's feet floating in amber liquid in oddly-colored glass jars sold as lucky charms? Seen it!

But even more exciting then the possibility of purchasing strange knick-knacks? Alistair could _smell _Denerim before he even saw the gates. _Good_ smells. Sizzling meat and frying cake dough smells. The smells of **food**, in other words. Not that Alistair had anything against dry jerky or overly-ripe berries. But oh, the thought of eating real, honest-to-the-Maker, vendor-bought food…! His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

So yes, while there was a Blight to stop, there was also delicious food to eat, and eating one would motivate him to stop the other. Or something like that. So the closer they drew to Denerim, the more his irritation at the detour wore down. He. Was. Hungry.

And well…he did have his own personal business he could attend to while in Denerim, did he not? While Lana was off, recruiting whatever poor soul she just **had **to get to Denerim for, maybe Alistair could slip off in the direction of the Alienage…he still carried Goldanna's address tucked safely away in his pack. He could stop there and…well…see his sister. Sure! Work up some courage thanks to a helping of Charbroiled Meat-on-a-Stick, wander up to her house, knock on her door and be all, "heyyy! I'm your long lost brother! There's a Blight coming so run in the opposite direction, okay? Thanks-byyeeeee!"

Okay, so his approach needed work. He'd just have to eat some more Real Food until he thought up something a bit more…sane.

But first he had to slip away from Lana. And Leliana. And, oh yes, the Bitch.

Well, no, Alistair wasn't too concerned with slipping away from Morrigan unnoticed. Actually, the way she kept looking around the city, completely confused but trying to hide it almost made Alistair feel sorry for her. There were no trees here for her to hide behind or any animals to converse with or really anything from the Wilds here. Just lots and lots and lots and lots of people, talking and touching and conducting their People Business. Everything here was probably foreign and terrifying to Morrigan and if she had been anyone else in their party, Alistair would not now be fighting the temptation to laugh.

Leliana, on the other hand, looked completely at ease as she deftly navigated through the crowds, holding Lana's hand so the dwarf would not get swept away by the throngs of people. At first Alistair tried to dismiss the Sister as…well, sodding crazy, but there was just _something _about her. He was beginning to think Leliana never missed a detail or trick. If he slipped away to the food court, she would not only know, but she would probably materialize beside him and drag him back by his ear.

So while Alistair _really _wanted to get something to eat (oohhh, that cheese shop hadn't been here the last time he was in the city!) and more importantly, he _really _wanted to see his sister…he had no idea how to get past Leliana.

And then there was Lana.

Alistair admittedly did not know much about Lana other than the fact that she was an exiled (and pretty!) dwarf. He had no idea what her crime in Orzammar had been and really, he didn't care all that much. She survived her Joining, she was a Grey Warden now and that's all he needed to concern himself with (well that, and getting to Redcliffe). But yet, he could not help but wonder who, exactly, a sheltered dwarf would be meeting in a surfacer's city.

_Surfacer's city._ He was beginning to sound like her now.

"Dwarven crafts! Fine dwarven crafts! Direct from Orzammar!"

Ahh. There was a dwarven merchant here. Selling dwarven crafts. Judging from how Lana dropped Leliana's hand and practically ran to the merchant, _that's _who she wanted to see. But why another merchant? Bodahn Feddic and his son were still at their main camp…how many merchants did the party need?

The merchant's eyes widened as he saw Lana charging towards him, "My lady? My Lady Aeducan?"

Aeducan?

Something about that name…Alistair couldn't quite place it. For some reason, he kept flashing back to history lessons at the Chantry. Wasn't Aeducan like…the Paragon of Paragons for the dwarves? And wasn't he dead since forever ago?

Judging from Leliana's expression, she also recognized the name. And, judging from how she grabbed his arm and started dragging him towards the food court with a, "Let's get something to eat, shall we?" she understood its significance far more than he did. Morrigan trailed listlessly after the two of them, looking slightly ill.

"—but--!" Alistair started to protest.

"Oh! Orlesian Crackle!" Leliana exclaimed in an overly-cheery voice as she dragged him to one of the vendor stands, "Have you tried this, Alistair?"

Alistair tried to shake his arm free, but Leliana's grip was surprisingly strong. "No," he said as he craned his head over the crowd, trying to keep Lana and the dwarf merchant in his sight. He could just see the merchant handing Lana what appeared to be a dwarven shield (finally, something in her size, Alistair mused) and a piece of parchment. Now both of the dwarves were talking, but there were just too many people making too much noise around him. That, and Leliana kept nattering in his ear.

"Oh, crackle is delicious! A bit salty though. But in Orlais, it was always such a treat! As children, we would fight over who got the first bit of crackle—the children of the chefs always had the advantage. We would beg and plead and more than once there were fights over who would get the first piece—which was always the best. Especially if it were still warm! You know, I grew up with a girl named Isabeau who fancied herself a delicate princess unless there was crackle involved and—"

"'Tis the skin of a pig," Morrigan said in an oddly-flat voice.

Leliana looked chastised, "Well, yes, but—"

"Deep-fried pigskin," Morrigan said, interrupting her again, "Shut. Up."

Much to Alistair's surprise, Leliana actually shut up. And at that moment (and indeed, for _only_ that moment), Morrigan was his favorite person ever. He would've thanked her, but Morrigan appeared to be too busy trying not to throw up. So instead, he went back to trying to listen in on Lana's conversation with the other dwarf. But he was still too far away.

Something wasn't right though

Alistair could not see Lana's expression, because her back was to him. However, the expression on the merchant she was talking to? Oh, Alistair had seen that expression before and knew it all too well…

"_Isolde, please, try to understand—"_

"_No, Eamon, __**you **__understand. I do not want that…that __**boy **__here. I am tired of the rumors, I am tired of the whispers, and I am tired of you neglecting your own son for __**him**__."_

"_Isolde, do you know who that boy's father is?"_

"_I know who you believe it to be. And I know who __**I **__believe it to be. Which is it, husband?"_

"_I gave my word—"_

"_To your king. But I am your __**wife."**_

_And, peeking out from behind the door of the closet he was currently hiding in, Alistair could see Arl Eamon's face and expression. The man looked old, tired, put upon…and heartbroken. _

_But after a moment Eamon said, "Very well. I will have Teagan find the boy and we will have him sent to the Chantry first thing tomorrow—"_

"_Tonight."_

"_**Tomorrow**__."_

_The arlessa huffed and stormed out of the room. Eamon rolled his eyes and after a moment's consideration, started after her with a, "Wait, Isolde!"_

…Alistair shook his head quickly, not really wanting to think about what happened next (_threw Mother's amulet against the wall, you threw the only thing of your mother's against the wall, the only thing you had of hers and you broke it and ran)_. Lana had placed her hand on the other dwarf's shoulder and said…well, who knew what. Now she was walking back towards him, firmly gripping her new shield, but her expression was completely unreadable.

Not a good sign.

"Are you alright?" Alistair asked as soon as she was close enough to hear him.

Lana gave him a strained smile, "Yes, quite. Um, Alistair?" she handed him the party's money pouch, "Could you, um…do a supply run? We need to get back to the main camp as soon as possible and we should restock before Redcliffe and um…I don't know…I don't know where anything is here and I can't…well…" she began to look annoyed with herself, but the smile stayed in place, "Well, just _do _it okay? I'll be setting up a night camp outside the city."

And before Alistair could do or say anything, the pouch was in his hand and Lana was practically running through the crowd, back to Denerim's main gate.

"Crackle?"

Leliana was beside him again, holding a small bag. Alistair ignored her and looked back towards the merchant. The dwarf was no longer belting out his sales pitch, but instead was staring blankly at the spot where Lana had been. The man's face was pale, save for his red-rimmed eyes.

A crying dwarf.

"I think we missed something here…" Alistair murmured. He hadn't intended Leliana to hear him (and how could she over that crunching she was doing?), but she did.

"Alistair," she said softly, "Do you not know who Lana is?"

"Besides the only other living Grey Warden in Ferelden? Besides one of two survivors of Ostagar? Besides an exiled dwarf? Besides our fearless leader? Besides from—"

"She is Aeducan," Leliana continued as if he had not spoken, "As in, the Lady Lana Aeducan. As in, daughter of King Endrin Aeducan," Leliana popped another piece of crackle in her mouth and gazed after where Lana had disappeared, "She is a princess, Alistair."

…princess…?

Alistair absent-mindedly reached into Leliana's snack bag and pulled out his own piece of crackle. It wasn't bad. Or at least he assumed so, considering his thoughts were focused on everything except the taste of what he was currently chewing on.

"Well, if she's the pretty princess of Orzammar…" he nodded towards the dwarf merchant who was now showing off a piece of armor to a potential buyer with no enthusiasm, "Who's that bloke?"

"Someone from her former life, I would assume," Leliana said with a small shrug, "Perhaps a brother? Or maybe a Second? If she is an exiled noble, then perhaps honor would demand the same fate for her Second…" Leliana crumbled the now-empty snack bag and reached for the money pouch, "Come, we should get our supplies and go."

"Oh, shopping," Morrigan groaned unenthusiastically, "We shall amaze the darkspawn with our matching shoes, I'm sure."

**Camp:**

Well, their money was mostly gone, but now the party was full-up on jerky, dried tea, and other needed supplies. Granted, they still could have purchased all of this in Redcliffe…but the Denerim Market Place was still the Denerim Market Place. It was almost always worth the trip. See interesting sights, meet interesting people, learn interesting tidbits…

Alistair lay on his bedroll, his pewter mug beside him, tea cooling in the mug.

Lana Aeducan, dwarven princess.

It was ironic, really. The last two Wardens in all of Ferelden were _royalty. _Everyone made such a fuss about blood and breeding and oh-keep-the-royals-safe! and here she was (and here _he_ was), doing their best to track down demons and darkspawn and get themselves killed.

Why hadn't she told him?

_Probably the same reason you haven't told __**her, **__you nitwit._

Of course, the royal difference between their royal selves was that she was a genuine royal-Aeducan and he was a bastard royal-Theirin.

So what now? Should he pretend that he knew all along what a surname of Aeducan meant? Should he confront her about it? Should he just ignore the fact? Should he tell her that Leliana tattled? Should he—

"Alistair? May I come in?"

Lana's voice, outside of his tent. Well, speak of the Arch Demon and he appears…

Alistair shrugged, then remembering Lana couldn't see him, said, "Only if you don't mind me being positively indecent."

Lana, undeterred, entered the tent without a word. She sat down at the edge of his bedroll, but didn't look at him.

"How long has it been since Ostagar?"

Alistair propped himself up on his elbows as he thought about the answer, "Well…it's been two weeks since we left the main camp…maybe three or four since Lothering…and I think we were in Flemeth's hut for oh, four, five days maybe…so like a month? Maybe two?"

"Two months," Lana whispered, still staring down at the ground, "Two months since Ostagar…then it's been three since my exile…three months…three months…three months…" and without warning, Lana started crying. Not delicate, lady-like crying, but full-on, heartbroken _sobbing._

"Hey, hey!" without thinking, Alistair sat the rest of the way up and enfolded Lana in a hug, "It's okay," he said, hoping that whatever was wrong really was okay, "It's okay, Lana, just calm down. Calm down."

"_Three months!" _she shrieked, but was muffled by his shoulder "He gave up on me after _three months!" _and her shrieks dissolved into incoherent, pitiful wails.

Alistair didn't know how much time passed. Lana continued to sob in his arms and he just held on to her, whispering soothing words and rocking her back and forth. If either Morrigan or Leliana heard them (and he could not fathom how they could not), they ignored them.

Just two Grey Wardens in one tent, both going slightly mad.

"I'm sorry," Lana finally blubbered, pulling away, "I'm so sorry…it's just…it used to be 'I will always love you' and now it's 'let me offer you a discount on my father-in-law's crafts'…"

Alistair nodded, pretending she made sense.

"And now I've dragged us away from our mission for nothing…" Lana rubbed at her eyes and gave a small chuckle, "Trian was right; I'm no commander."

Well, Alistair wouldn't argue with the "dragged away" part, but if Lana was not their leader slash commander, then they had no one. Alistair was many things—quaint, charming and completely convinced of his inability to lead anyone anywhere.

"Well, it wasn't a completely wasted trip," he said, "Morrigan doesn't take to city life to well, so that made it worth it."

Lana smiled slightly. Determined, Alistair pressed on, "And Leliana let us stop at a sweets shop for some much needed sugary supplies," he held up a small, brightly colored bag, "Antivan sugar-spice drops! Yuuuumyummy!" he pulled the string and held the bag under Lana's nose, "You knooooowwwww you want itttttt."

Now Lana was started to giggle, which Alistair took as a super-fantastic-by-the-Maker-absolutely-_wonderful _sign. She even took one of the sugar-spice drops and took a nibble from the corner. And well, anyone who was anyone knew you just ate the entire sugar-spice drop in one go, but they probably didn't have delicious candy in Orzammar, so Alistair could forgive this _faux pas_.

For now.

Besides, he had something even better for her.

"And to show this was not a completely wasted trip despite what you may or may not think…" Alistair reached over for a cloth-covered bundle, "Princess Pretty Colors and I got you a present."

Now Lana was smiling. She pulled the cloth off of the bundle and gasped in surprise. A chainmail shirt and chausses lay before her. A _dwarven-sized_ chainmail shirt and chausses.

"It's not the best armor," Alistair admitted, somewhat sheepishly, "But we figured you'd have an easier time getting to Redcliffe alive and all if you weren't wearing the armor equivalent of rusty air and—"

Alistair was cut off (actually his air supply was cut off) as Lana fiercely hugged him. And while Alistair wanted to tell her about the merchants he had bought the armor from—a strange bickering couple—he wanted to tell her about them because he knew that would make her laugh…he would settle for hugs. Hugs were good…especially when they came from pretty dwarfs. There would be other opportunities to make his dwarven princess laugh. Plenty of opportunities.

Alistair hugged her back, just as fiercely. Because really, after this mess in Denerim, nothing else could really go wrong, now could it? They'd get to Redcliffe, hand over their problems to Eamon and save the world.

Sure they would. Just like that. It was their royal destiny.


	9. Chapter 9:  The Right Thing

Chapter Nine: The Right Thing

"Love me when I least deserve it for that is when I most need it."

~Swedish Proverb

When did everything go so wrong?

Lana sat alone in her camp tent, slowly running her sword over a whetstone. Every couple of minutes, she glanced toward the tent flap, hoping to see a certain familiar face but…

…but…

…but she knew Alistair wouldn't come. He _hated _her. There was no other word for it. After what happened in Redcliffe, he just…_hated _her. But for all the Ancestors, Lana couldn't figure out what she could've done differently.

…or for that matter, what she had done so wrong.

Yes, the arlessa was dead. But the child was safe! The village was safe! Teagan had told her that once she was inside the castle, _Eamon _was the priority; the rest of the family was expendable. Harsh, yes, but she _needed _Eamon's support or their battle against the Blight was going to be extremely short lived. Teagan had understood. Isolde _volunteered _to be the sacrifice, so she had understood as well. These people raised Alistair…why did he not understand?

Lana set her sword and whetstone off to the side. She was probably damaging the blade more than actually sharpening it and Gorim (oh how she wanted to hate him) taught her better than that. She wanted a cup of that Warden specialty drink—the liquid chocolate. More importantly, she wanted her friend back. Ever since the double-disasters of her exile and Ostagar, Alistair was all she really had left.

She missed him.

He was right across from her at the camp—couldn't be more than fifteen paces!—but he was worlds away. If she peeked outside her tent flap, she would probably see him brooding by the fire. Lana refused to look. If she looked, she would go to him and if she went to him, he would scream at her again. And she just could not take another fight. She'd rallied a village, battled through undead, faced a demon and contributed to the death of an arlessa, but Lana Aeducan could not bear to see the sheer hatred Alistair would look at her with.

She started to reach for the tent flap—just to see—and caught herself. Her hand fell limply to her side, "I did the best I could, Alistair," she whispered hoarsely.

_Did you? _asked a sneering little voice.

Well, what was she supposed to have done? Run off to the Tower of Magi and leave the village defenseless again? It would've taken the party several days to get to the tower—what was to stop Connor from sending another horde of undead to the village while they were gone? Should she have killed the boy outright? Lana shivered at the thought. If Alistair hated her _now…_

_Another night with no sleep. It's not that she wasn't tired it's just…sleep brought dreams. And after Denerim and so many random encounters with darkspawn on their way to Redcliffe…it just seemed easier to stay awake. How did surfacers cope with…this? Falling asleep and never knowing whether or not you would have a good dream or a bad dream? Alistair had told her that there were good dreams to be had as well as bad dreams but she didn't feel like playing that particular game of roulette tonight. Or most other nights._

_But Alistair, Ancestors bless him, understood. While everyone else in camp slept on, he always stayed up with her. Sometimes he'd have the liquid chocolate (which Lana suspected that she was forming an addiction to) or some hot tea. Sometimes they'd talk until the sun rose…_

_(("What are abominations, Alistair?" / "Oh, bad. Very, very bad. Kill-stab-them-immediately type of bad."))_

_(("Hey, Lana…is it true that dwarven ale can dissolve your stomach lining?" / "Only if you don't eat something first."))_

_(("You've never seen the night sky before?" / "Well, no, how could I?" / "True that…you aren't, um, y'know, gonna fall up into it or anything." / "…really?"))_

_(("So…d'you miss it? Orzammar? Rocks, lava, clothing sold in your size?" / "…I did. But I doubt they feel the same way. What about you? Do you miss Redcliffe?" / "Welllllll…I miss waking up every morning to the smell of horse dung, but Chopper makes up for it."))_

_Sometimes he'd fall asleep himself as the two of them just sat, staring at the fire…_

_(…and she would watch him sleep and study how the fire caused shadows to dance across his face and wonder if she was falling in love with him or just rebounding from Gorim…)_

_But he never left her alone._

Until now.

Without thinking, she pulled back her tent flap and looked outside. And yes, there he was sitting and brooding by the campfire, just like he was most every other night. And before she could think, Lana grabbed up a small satchel that lay next to her bedroll and pulled herself out of her tent. Alistair didn't even look up as she approached or when she kneeled down next to him. That was fine by her.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," Lana said softly as she stared into the fire herself, "I know that doesn't make up for…anything, really…but I am sorry," she set the satchel next to him and stood back up, "I found this at the castle….thought you might like to have it."

Alistair didn't move.

Lana sighed unhappily and turned to go back to her tent. Well, she'd already lost her home, family and Gorim. What was another friend to the pile? She was Aeducan and would overcome.

Well, overcome all and all tomorrow. Tonight she just wanted to lie down and dwell in feeling heartsick. She'd earned it.

"Where did you find this?"

Lana turned around at the question. Alistair had opened the satchel and was running his thumb over the amulet inside, "The arl's study," she said, "In his desk. Why do you ask?"

But she already knew the answer.

"This was my mother's," Alistair said quietly, "It has to be, even though it isn't broken…but why…" he trailed off.

But why…what? But why wasn't it broken? Because someone had fixed it! But why had she been going through the arl's desk? She hadn't—the drawers had been askew and she tried to righten them. But why had she given it back to him? Because she wanted her friend back!

And now Alistair was looking at her, actually _looking _at her, and much to her relief, the hatred from earlier is gone. So was the usual mischievous sparkle, but she could take "old" "weary" and "heartbroken" over hatred any day.

"Thank you," he whispered as he slipped the fine silver chain around his neck.

Lana nodded, "You're welcome."

Alistair looked as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. Lana gave him a moment, and then two more, before heading back to her tent. She was just pulling back the flap when—

"Lana?"

She turned, an eyebrow raised.

Alistair still looked weary, but the hatred was still gone, "Do you have my kettle? Leliana left her tea rations over here if you're interested in…y'know…some tea."

Lana quickly turned back towards her tent so he would not see the relieved smile. Oh, thank the Ancestors… "I'll be right out."

* * *

_A/N: I'm sorry if this seems choppy and disjointed. My husband has been playing Borderlands all day with the stereo bass on Super Extra Loud, so the moment Alistair and Lady Aeducan start to feel sentimental, I get BOOM!RATTATATATATA!BANG and other types of loud __onomatopoeia._

_Thank you for all the kind reviews thus far! I'm so happy so many people are enjoying my snippy-series! Gives me the warm fuzzies. __ ~R._


	10. Chapter 10:  By the Fireside II

Chapter Ten: By the Fireside II

"Death is a friend of ours; and he that is not ready to entertain him is not at home."

~Francis Bacon Sr.

Lana Aeducan was dying.

It was Alistair's fault.

The party had set up camp on the mountain top, not far from the corpse of slain High Dragon. Leliana straddled the neck of the dragon, deftly slicing off the slick black scales with a small knife. Why she felt the need to do this, Alistair didn't know. Nor did he particularly care. He sat by the dying camp fire, just staring at the pup tent Morrigan had erected.

For the first time since Duncan conscripted him from the Chantry, Alistair found himself whispering what he remembered from the Chant of Light:

"…_Maker, my enemies are abundant…many are those who rise up against me…but my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion…should they set themselves against me…"_

Before the Gauntlet, he'd warned Lana—**he **had warned her—about engaging a High Dragon. They were dangerous, _nasty, _exceedingly foul-tempered and all sorts of other scary words that meant their party Should Not Engage the Beast. But then there had been the Guardian and the faith tests (and Lana was a kinslayer?-no, no, that was wrong, that was all wrong, that wasn't Lana, not _his _Lana, there was another explanation, there just had to be), and of course, _finding the sodding __**Urn of Sacred Ashes **_and smugly telling off that Kolgrim lunatic…really, what was battling a dragon compared to all that?

"_...Maker, though the darkness comes upon me…I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm…I shall endure…what you have created, no one can tear asunder..."_

And Maker curse that pretty dwarf, she'd _agreed _with him. What if Genitivi revealed the location of the Urn? Being eaten by a dragon would be a foul end to a holy pilgrimage, now wouldn't it? The Arch Demon took the form of a dragon—this could be practice! What a swell idea, attacking a large **grumpy **beast with only four moderately armed party members! What. Could. Possibly. Go. Wrong?

Alistair's side ached from where Lana's shield had connected. He remembered ducking from the jet of flame and when he looked back up, he'd been greeted by an approaching maw of hungry dragon teeth—

-and then something collided with his side, sending him sprawling. Lana had bashed him away from death with her shield. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, he'd started to pull himself to his feet, ready to thank her—

-and found himself incoherently screaming as he realized that the maw of hungry dragon teeth had found and latched on to Lana instead. Said-maw had clamped on and was violently shaking the dwarf from side to side, like Chopper would do with his favorite mushy-yarn ball-

"…_though all before me is shadow…yet shall the Maker be my guide…I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond…for there is no darkness in the Maker's Light…and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost…"_

_-_and still screaming and definitely **not** thinking, Alistair had seized his sword hilt with both hands and charged the dragon. He leapt onto the beast's neck and just started _stabbing, _each stab punctuated by a, "-**let-her-go-let-her-go-let-her-GO-let-her-go-!**"

"…_draw your last breath, my friends…cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky…rest at the Maker's right hand…and be Forgiven…"_

Lana fell from the dragon's mouth, her new chainmail armor bloodied, mauled and ultimately ruined. The dragon fell shortly afterwards, Alistair's long sword embedded in its skull-

-and Alistair had scrambled off of the dragon to Lana, screaming for Morrigan, screaming for her to get over here _now_ and _please_ and _help her you apostate-bitch_ and so on and so on.

And now here they were.

…Leliana harvesting dragon scales…

…Morrigan trying to piece Lana back together…

…Alistair praying…

The flap on the pup tent rustled and Morrigan emerged, looking drained. Alistair and Leliana immediately stopped what they were doing and stared, waiting for her to say something.

Morrigan just shook her head, "I am no healer," she said quietly. And, much to Alistair's surprise, the witch sank to her knees with a…well, not quite a sob, but definitely a small noise of frustration, regret and…sorrow? Yes. Just this once, he'd pretend the Bitch was human enough to feel sorrow.

Just this once.

"By Andraste," Leliana whispered as she made the sign of the Maker.

Alistair turned away and stared back into the fire (more embers now than actual flame…he'd been lax in tending to it). Underneath the layers of armor and cloth, he could feel the amulet—his mother's sacred amulet—practically burning against his chest. He resisted the urge to tear it off and smash it (again).

_Your fault, Warden…your fault, your fault, your fault…_a small voice chided him.

"…I'll do anything…" he whispered to the embers, "…forget the Blight, forget the arl…just please…_please_ give her back to me…"

He didn't know who he pled with—the Arch Demon, the Maker, Andraste, even—but he received no answer.

* * *

_A/N: Chant of Light verses stolen from Canticle of Trials, 1:1, 1:10, 1:14, 1:16. Bless you, Dragon Age wiki. Bless you like Bann Teagan._


	11. Chapter 11:  Guilt

_A/N: Alistair's non-reaction to Cailan's fate always leaves me seeing interesting shades of red._

Chapter Eleven: Guilt

"To make a bad day worse, spend it wishing for the impossible."

~ "Calvin and Hobbes"

**Ostagar (again):**

How could no one have seen it? Same eyes, same nose, same jaw…Maker, practically the same _face_…why had no one at Ostagar ever come up to him and been all, "Oy, Alistair! Anyone tell you that y'look almost exactly like King Cailan? Who, y'know, looks almost exactly like his father? There a reason for that?"

Of course, if someone had said that, how would he have responded? "Oh, no! We look nothing alike! See, Cailan's hair is long and fine and light whereas _mine_ kinda looks like a ducktail! See! Completely different!"

But no one had asked—probably because no one had noticed. There just had not been enough time. Troops were rallying, gearing up for battle and no one paid any mind to how the newest Grey Warden bore an uncanny resemblance to the king.

But now…

Alistair could only stare at Cailan's face, silently ticking off every identical feature and committing it to memory.

_That is my __**brother**__…__**my**__ brother… my big brother…_

Across from the pyre stood Wynne, torch in hand. And Alistair liked Wynne, he really did. She reminded him of one of the Redcliffe servants who had taken pity on him once Isolde (by the Maker, _Isolde_ was still dead), had come to live in the castle. She'd given him the green scratchy blanket when he slept out in the stables…she'd unlocked the servant's kitchen exit for him when he'd overheard Eamon agreeing to send him to the Chantry…she'd even sent him off with a sandwich and wished him luck…and Alistair had been looking forward to seeing her again. He'd wanted to thank her and show her that despite everything, he'd grown up okay. And hey, look, he could even reach the hook and eye latch on the door so if he needed to escape again, har har, he could do it himself.

And technically, he had seen her again…what was left of her, at any rate. A growling, rotting _thing, _reaching for him, ready to tear him apart and—

No. Alistair gave his head a quick shake. He couldn't think about that. Not now.

"_Let the blade pass through the flesh," _Wynne was saying, and ooh, wouldn't the Revered Mother just have a fit if she knew that a **mage** presided over the funeral of Ferelden's king? "_Let my blood touch the ground…let my cries touch their hearts…" _Wynne touched the torch to Cailan's pyre. It caught immediately, "_Let mine be the last sacrifice."_

…_my big brother…_

How much older had Cailan been? Nine years? Ten? What had he been like? Oh, Alistair knew about the fascination with history and grand battles—everyone knew that. And Alistair knew Cailan's wife was extremely beautiful and shrewd, but everyone knew that too. But what had _Cailan _been like? Was he a morning person? Did he skip breakfast? What had he named his first dog? Did he skip lessons? Could he swim? Had he ever snuck out of the palace late at night? Who was the first girl he ever kissed? Did he fight with his mother over how he wanted to wear his hair? Did he like cheese? By the Maker, what was his favorite color? Alistair was Cailan's little brother and he knew none of the secrets a little brother should be privy to. None.

Alistair didn't realize how badly he'd been shaking until a small hand slipped into his own, steadying it.

Lana.

She too stared ahead, watching the flames consume the king (his brother, by the Maker, _his brother). _And he watched her for only a moment, really just long enough to see the flame's light dance across her face, but in that moment, he knew he loved her. With everything he ever had, lost or wanted, he loved her.

He _loved_ her.

"May the Maker guide your steps, your Majesty," Wynne said, pulling Alistair attention back to the pyre. The flames had reached Cailan's body and…Alistair turned away. He couldn't watch.

"Come on," Lana said quietly, giving his hand a small tug, "Let's set up a camp. You don't need to see this."

_Didn't he?_

But Alistair plodded along clumsily beside her, trying to summon up the courage for one last look at his brother's body. He couldn't find any. Shame burned in him, but he just couldn't turn around. He just…couldn't watch Cailan sizzle away like a hunk of meat.

Something in his chest tightened quickly and painfully. Alistair stumbled and fell to a knee, and yet he still managed to keep a hold on Lana's hand. Tears stung at his eyes. He wanted to sob, he wanted to scream to Loghain and the darkspawn that they had _**missed **__a Theirin, damn you, you __**missed one**__!—_he wants to go crazy, just go _sodding crazy…_

But Lana kneeled before him, making small shushing noises, telling him it was okay, running her free hand through his hair…she was here, she'd never leave him, and she was sorry about Cailan, so sorry about Cailan, but they'll go back to Denerim…they'll find his sister in Denerim, she saw his nightmare in the Fade and she'll go with him, she will…

And Alistair never kissed a girl in his life, but right now he wants nothing more than to kiss Lana Aeducan, but his chest just _hurts _too much and he can't _breathe _and by the Maker, he doesn't know _how_ to kiss a girl…

And now Wynne is kneeling next to them, saying something reassuring that Alistair can't hear over his own hyperventilating. Lana is still there, quiet now, but smiling her small smile and still running her fingers across his cheek and through his hair. And he loves her, by the Maker he _loves _her and he can't tell her because he's too busy going quite mad, thank you very much…

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small golden spark. And now Wynne is brushing her fingers across his temple, but her touch is warm and…tingling. The pain in his chest is starting to dissipate and he can almost breathe, but he's just tired now, so tired…and Wynne whispers another incantation and there's another golden spark, and Alistair is falling forward against Lana…

…_and he remembers the day that Maric and Cailan visited Eamon in Redcliffe, and Cailan had run off to the armory in excitement…he remembers peeking around the door to watch Cailan crash around the armor displays while waving around a practice foil…and he remembers how Cailan just…stopped when he saw the display of the golden dragonbone armor…and he remembers Cailan reaching out and tracing the carvings with the tips of his fingers…_

_Gold…_Alistair thought blearily as he collapsed into Lana's arms, _…his favorite color was gold…_

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Chant of Light snippet is Andraste 7:12_. _I have no clue if that's a proper verse to use for a death, but I thought it fitting. What BioWare wrote of the Chant of Light really is quite beautiful and I love having excuses to wedge it in here and there. Oh, BioWare. _


	12. Chapter 12:  Bottled Courage

Chapter Twelve: Bottled Courage

"What whiskey will not cure, there is not cure for."

~Irish Proverb

**Gnawed Noble Tavern:**

Alistair hiccupped.

Over the rim of her mug, Alistair saw Lana's eyes widen in horror. His cheeks burned in shame. Here he sat, a _bona fide _Grey Warden—the best, last, and _only_ hope for the survival of Ferelden from the Blight—and he couldn't hold his liquor. The shame! The indignity! The…dishonor! Yeah, the dishonor! First thing tomorrow morning, he would march off to the Deep Roads and die like a true Warden, thus restoring his personal honor and his dignity AND his unshamefulness and-

-he hiccupped again, causing Lana to giggle into her ale mug. Well! If that was how she was going to act about his…_disability _(inability?)…then Alistair would just stand up and go to the Deep Roads **right now.**

…once he found his feet. And his legs.

"Sod it," he mumbled and downed the dregs of his own mug in about two gulps, "Oy! Bar wench!" he called, waving the shamefully empty mug in the air.

As if by magic, the mug disappeared from his hand and a new, chilled mug sat before him on the table, full of frothy goodness. Alistair grinned stupidly and pressed a silver into the waiting hand of the waitress. The girl huffed, pocketed the coin and stomped off to the next table drunkenly calling for her services.

"She's grumpy," Alistair remarked as he picked up his new mug. He inhaled deeply, but his nose had gone off with his feet and legs, leaving him with no sense of smell.

"You would be too if you worked as a server," Lana said as she leaned against the table and plucked the mug from his hand. She smiled at his squawk of protest, "I just want a sample!"

"Get your own."

"_You _call the scary lady back here!" Lana exclaimed before she took a nice_ loooong _sip from _Alistair's _ale. She made a contented noise and sank back down on her side of the table, "Ooh, that's good…I want one of those."

Alistair nodded his head towards her still-mostly-full mug, "You _have _one of those."

"So I do, so I do," she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the high wall of her bench, "But all dwarves are fierce alcoholics, you know."

"Well, this was _your _idea," Alistair replied, doing his best to **not **notice the fine curve of Lana's neck or how her hair fell _just so_ over her shoulders when she held her head that way. And he definitely did not notice the simple, yet clingy-in-all-the-right-places peasant dress she had found…somewhere…for their return trip to Denerim. Nor did he notice how one of the front laces dangled invitingly between her-

-more ale! Time for lots more ale!

"_Alistair, take the armor off."_

_Alistair's jaw dropped. He tried to make some sort of noise…a protesting squeak, a charmed laugh, a scream of panic…__**something. **__The best he could do though was some bizarre "urgle". By the Maker, he sounded like a dying frog._

_Lana sighed in exasperation and thwacked him once in the arm, "Not for __**that**__! Stone's sake, do you really want to visit your civilian sister looking like you're about to lead an Exalted March? Or walk into Loghain's stronghold looking like a Grey Warden?"_

_Alistair glanced down at the battered templar armor he currently wore. Yeah…it was a bit showy, come to think of it. And the spots of dried blood probably didn't help. Or the dings and holes from various types of weaponry. He did want to be rid of this armor set, but considering what he currently owned to replace it with…_

_Well, gold really wasn't his color._

_Fingers snapped before his eyes, startling him, "Get. Dressed." Lana said in what Alistair recognized to be her Bossy Voice (her Princess Aeducan voice?), "Before the rest of the camp wakes up."_

_He did so._

The freedom of civilian clothing was **awesome. **Just like drunkenness! Alistair couldn't remember the last time (outside of maces smashing him on the head into unconsciousness) he felt so light and unrestricted and…well, happy. Granted after his disastrous meeting with his harpy of a sister, he should have no reason to feel happy like, ever again, buuuttttttttttttt…

What could he say? Lana Aeducan brought out the (drunken) best in him.

He hiccupped.

Lana smiled, but continued to lean back against her bench, eyes closed, "Can I ask you something?"

"Let me get some courage first," Alistair said and took a hefty gulp from his ale. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sighed, "Okay. Go ahead."

"Why do you swear like a dwarf?"

Alistair blinked, confused, "S'cuse me?"

"You heard me. You're all 'sod this' and 'sod that' and 'sod off' and—"

"Isolde hated it."

Lana cracked open an eye in response.

"It's true!" Alistair said with a shrug, "I used to play around the smithies in Redcliffe and they were all manned by dwarves. Because as you know," he winked, "all dwarves are smiths."

Lana smirked, "All dwarves."

"All of 'em," Alistair agreed and swallowed some more ale, "I just repeated what I heard and one day Isolde heard me repeating what I heard…and, well. Wow. That's all I can say about her reaction. Wooooow. Now," Alistair gave Lana a pointed look, "Can I ask _you_ a question?"

She nodded slightly. Alistair quickly downed the rest of his mug (more courage! Moooore courage!) and cleared his throat, "Did you kill your brother?'

Alistair wasn't sure what type of reaction he'd been expecting. A slap would've been good. Dumping the rest of her tankard on his head was also acceptable. Running him through (because Alistair knew, just knew, Lana had something sharp hidden away in that simple dress of hers) was also a possibility. But she did none of that. Instead she closed her eyes again and leaned back, "Yes," she said simply.

"_Why?" _he blurted.

"He was going to kill me," she answered, "We were…out-maneuvered, you could say. But, in the end, all that matters is that _my _blade is the one that pierced and stopped Trian's heart."

"But…but…but…" Alistair stammered as his hands flailed around, gesturing uselessly, "He was _your brother! _You can't just go around, stabbing your siblings! You just…can't!"

Lana's eyes snapped open and there, below the sheen of drunkenness, Alistair could see an unholy rage burning, "Goldanna was your _sister," _she snapped, "Look at how well _that _went!"

Well…Alistair had to concede that point to Lana. He'd been expecting something along the lines of "Thank the Maker my little brother is safe at last!"and received "moneymoneymoneymoney!" instead. Why had he ever expected anything different? After all, he could never be simply _Alistair. _He always had to be a _bastard-Theirin, _illegitimate heir to the kingdom, now with fifty percent more riches! Or something along those lines…

"I didn't kill him because I wanted to, Alistair," Lana was saying, interrupting his brooding, "I killed him because he was swinging a maul at my face. So I…well…I ducked and…" she took the last swallow of her ale and began to massage at her temple with her free hand, "I ducked and I stabbed out…clumsy stab, even…and Trian had this _terrible_ set of scale armor…he wore it because it looked so _fancy_ and never mind how badly it needed repaired…and my blade just slipped through the scales and killed him," Lana looked up from her empty mug, the anger burning in her eyes now mingling with sadness, "Luck of the kinslayer, I guess."

"…who set you up?" Alistair found himself asking.

For a moment, he didn't think Lana would answer. But with a small shake of her head, she finally said, "My younger brother."

Alistair had no words. Instead, he reached across the table and took one of the dwarf's small hands in both of his own. To his surprise, Lana didn't flinch or try to pull away. Instead she raised the tangle of hands up and brushed a kiss against his knuckles.

"You're so sweet…" she murmured, her breath tickling at his skin on the back of his hand.

And thank the Maker and Andraste and whoever else in the universe could be responsible for alcohol because this time, **this time**, he Alistair bastard-Theirin is going to do it. It doesn't matter that he has no idea how to kiss a girl, it doesn't matter that he may be struck down by lightning for kissing said-girl…the sodding alcohol has given him the sodding courage to free a hand to caress her face and to lean across the table…and oh, bless the Maker Lana is actually leaning forward herself and this kiss is going to be _grand, _it's going to be _epic, _it's going to be—

-non-existent, for Lana suddenly vanished to be replaced with a field mouse. An adorable little brown mouse with the biggest eyes Alistair has ever seen, but a field mouse nonetheless.

And justlikethat!, Morrigan was standing next to their table, crabby expression on her face and small, air-hole laden box in her hands. Except it wasn't _quite_ Morrigan…she had actual clothes on, for starters. Her belts and feathers from the Wilds had been replaced by a black velvet gown and some brave soul had managed to run a comb through and style Morrigan's hair…

…as if on cue, Leliana, back in her Chantry robes, appeared next to Morrigan. She also wore an identical crabby expression and Alistair just knew, he just KNEW, the next couple hours of his life were going to be sheer, absolute HELL.

"If you don't wish to revisit your toad form," Morrigan said icily, "I urge you to return to camp with us."

Alistair hiccupped.

_A/N: Yup, I ripped off my own story-idea. But I just love the idea of Morrigan getting so pissed off at characters that she shape-shifts them against their will. I know I would abuse that power_._ Bwhahaha._

_As always, many MANY thank-yous to all the kind reviews. I would have stopped this long ago if not for your support and encouragement (and blatant Lady Aeducan fangirlness because really…Lady Aeducan does not get all the OMG!squee! she deserves)._

_Until next time! __ ~R._


	13. Chapter 13:  Greeneyed Monster

Chapter Thirteen: Green-eyed Monster

"The venom clamors of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth."

~Emilia, "The Comedy of Errors", Act V, Scene I

Morrigan heard the return of the idiot and the dwarf to the camp long before she saw them. She had been sitting on her bedroll, mortar and pestle in hand, grinding herbs for poultices. Chopper lay beside her, head tucked neatly between his paws, lazily watching. Across the camp, the other party members were also engaged in various busy-work: the qunari tended to his blade, the elf tended to his hair and so on. The sun shined, the birds sang and peace reigned throughout the camp.

And then:

"I don't believe you! By the Maker, I _do not_ sodding believe you!"

The idiot.

"Mithra deserved it."

Lana.

"_How? _How in the name of anything remotely holy did Mithra deserve being hit in the face?"

The idiot again.

"She said I was fat."

And Lana. Morrigan put down the mortar and turned her head curiously to the direction of the voices. Beside her, Chopper gave a small whine.

"She did not!"

"Yes she did!"

Curious. Just the idiot and the dwarf argued. What happened to the foolish bard and the mage that had left with them for the Dalish camp this morning? Had they been wounded? Or did they merely trail behind the Wardens in a silent embarrassment?

"No, she _did not. _At no point did she look down into your eye and say, 'Lana Aeducan, you are one fat dwarf.'"

Or perhaps the bard and mage decided to remain with the Dalish? Given a choice between that and following these two fools…

"She said that the Dalish leathers weren't cut for someone of my 'proportions.'"

"They're not!"

Neither Warden was in sight of the camp yet, but the entire party heard the resounding _**SLAP**_! Chopper winced. Morrigan sighed. Served the idiot right…perhaps, with some luck, the force of an Angry-Dwarven-Slap-From-Hand-Encased-in-Steel-Gauntlet broke the idiot's jaw and he could never speak again.

"**GYYYOOOWWWWW!" **

Or perhaps not.

"Andraste's _knickers_, what did you just hit _me _for?"

"You deserved it!"

"**How?**"

Lana appeared, stomping through the thinning trees into the camp. The idiot was not two paces behind her, holding his already-swelling jaw. The other party members quickly resumed their busy-work, pretending to ignore the fight…except Morrigan. She absent-mindedly scritched behind Chopper's ears and leaned forward slightly, hoping Lana might belt the idiot again.

Lana continued her stomp across the camp, ignoring the idiot's demands that she answer him _This. Sodding. Instant. _She ignored him right until the moment she reached her tent. Lana flung open the tent flap, shouted a dwarven curse over her shoulder at the idiot and slipped inside. The idiot sputtered indignantly and began to shout his own curses at Lana's tent.

The bard and the mage appeared at the edge of the woods, looking exasperated and weary. Wynne took one look at the idiot, yelling at a tent and flailing his arms, muttered something about how she "forgot her staff" back with the Dalish, turned and walked back into the woods. Leliana gaped at the ranting idiot for a moment before she shook her head and turned to follow Wynne.

"You can't just _hit_ people for expressing opinions!" the idiot was shouting, "And that wasn't even an opinion! You're always complaining about how everything on the surface is too large for you to use but ooohhh, if someone agrees with you, you can just bash them in the face! Not okay! NOT OKAY! You are a dwarf and armor cut for an _elf_ is not going to fit! You can't change that! You can't go and—"

Lana's head poked out from the tent, "You would know all about the fit of Dalish leathers, wouldn't you?" she snapped icily, "You stared so long and hard at all those cute elves in their complete LACK of armor, that I'm surprised none of them combusted!" she ducked back inside the tent and the idiot began spluttering anew

Morrigan smiled in utter delight. Jealousy! How charming! Their fearless leader, their exiled dwarven princess, their oh-so-brave-and-bold Warden…was in the middle of a jealous rage. Lovely. Simply lovely.

"Alistair!" she called before the idiot could begin shouting again. He turned and looked at her expectantly, "May I speak with you?"

The idiot stared for a moment, uncomprehending. But then, whatever passed for the man's thought processes kicked in and he sighed (QUITE loudly), and shuffled over to Morrigan's encampment.

"Might I assume you had some problems with the Dalish?" Morrigan asked, doing her best to sound genuinely concerned (but failing and sounding genuinely amused instead).

The idiot cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Lana's tent and sighed again, "They're fine," he grumbled, "The Dalish are all fine. Completely fine. So fine they could not be any finer than fine."

"Truly?"

"Truly," he replied and rubbed at his swelling jaw, "Until Lana decided to break the nose of one of their warriors, so I guess that one is not quite so fine," he peered over at the various herbs hanging to dry and the assorted jars of Maker-knew-what surrounding Morrigan's tent, "D'you have anything for massive bruising?"

"I was working on more poultices," Morrigan said truthfully, "Seeing as you utilize them at an extraordinary rate. Alas, I have nothing readily available."

"Couldn't you like, magic up some ice or something? Do that frost-thingy that you do on the swords. I'll use that."

"And risk you stabbing out an eye?" Morrigan repressed a snicker, "I think not."

The idiot sat down with a huff next to Chopper. The dog gave a small whine and moved his massive head from his paws to Alistair's lap. Alistair focused his attention on petting the dog—just staring at his hand running through the thick fur. It kept him from looking back to the tent, "I can't stand this," he murmured.

"The bruising?"

"No!" he said, rolling his eyes, "I can't stand…her. Lana. I can't stand Lana. She's…she's…" the idiot's free hand flexed in the air as though he were trying to pluck the perfect word from nothing, "…I dunno…she's…I'm not…just…_why is she so angry with me?"_

And a perfectly scathing comment just danced on the tip of Morrigan's tongue and she honestly disliked the idiot enough to actually say it…but she didn't. Instead, she studied the idiot's—Alistair's—face for a moment. So dopey. So confused. And so very sad.

"She loves you," Morrigan said simply.

Alistair shot to his feet, red-faced and stammering and _delightfully _embarrassed. Morrigan patiently waited as he sputtered out his "she's a fellow Warden!"s and "nononono, it's not like that!"s and "but she's a dwarf!"s. She patiently waited for his coloration to fade to something slightly healthier looking and she patiently waited for him to stop pacing and fidgeting. When he was mostly silent and kind of still and she knew that he was looking at her expectantly…

Morrigan laughed at him.

Alistair groaned and sank back down next to the dog, "I hate you," he said, "Have I ever told you that before? I really, really hate you."

"Tis not my fault that you are a fool," she said simply. Chopper barked in agreement, much to Alistair's disgust. Morrigan leaned forward and took Alistair's chin in hand, not bothering to mind the swelling, "If you have any honor, you will apologize to our leader this very instant."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!"

Morrigan shook her head, exasperated, and let go of Alistair, "Chantry child to the last," she murmured and picked her mortar back up, "Do excuse yourself—I have much to do before our next excursion."

The idiot wasn't listening. Instead, both he and Chopper were staring at Lana's tent. Lana stood outside, arms crossed, staring right back at them. No one moved. There was no sound save for the grinding and crunching of the pestle.

"…she loves you…" Morrigan said quietly, "…tis a rare and wonderful opportunity for a fool…"

Alistair broke the gaze first. He stood back up and clumsily stumbled towards Lana. He'd pulled his pack off of his back and was fumbling in it for who-knew-what. Morrigan ceased her pretense of grinding and watched, a smirk playing across her face. And when she saw what the idiot pulled from his pack, she felt herself flush slightly. She quickly looked back down into her work to save face.

"Here," she heard the idiot say, "Look at this. D'you know what this is?"

And Morrigan heard Lana's still-trying-to-be-angry-but-can't-maintain-the-façade reply of, "Is this your new weapon of choice?"

Morrigan shook her head slightly in disbelief. Neither could apologize and neither could openly admit the blatantly obvious, "They are of a kind, those two," she said to Chopper as he settled back into his lazy dog sprawl, "Fools to the last."

* * *

_A/N: Yes, I am a shameless Morrigan and Dog fan. _

_And yes, if you play a Lady Aeducan and just for giggles you want to see what she looks like in the cheerleader uniforms masquerading as Dalish leathers…Mithra is right. The proportions are just so very wrong. _


	14. Chapter 14: Three Little Words

_A/N: Hello! Sorry for the delay in posting, but my job ate me. And I had a terrible Writer's Block. I must have started this chapter at /least/ seven times and while I'm not exactly happy with how this turned out, it's much better than the other six pieces of garbage festering on my laptop. Ug._

_The next couple-o chapters are going to be Orzammar-heavy to combat the disappointment I felt when my Aeducan returned to Orzammar in-game. After Orzammar, the ending will be in sight! Kinda exciting, ain't it?_

_As always, thank you VERY MUCH for the kind reviews…and I'm very sorry I'm so terrible at replying to them. They do mean a lot to me and help me keep going and help convince me that everything I've written ever is NOT crap, even when I've restarted a damn chapter over and over and over and over. And wow, run on. Okay, over-n-out and see you underground! ~R._

Chapter Fourteen: Three Little Words

"'Let me help'. A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He'll recommend those three words even over 'I love you'."

~James T. Kirk, "The City on the Edge of Forever"

Orzammar 1:4

**Frostback Mountains, Party Camp**:

Well.

This was it.

Orzammar.

What a weird sounding name. It was kind of like "sister". Orzammar. Orzzzzzaaaaammmmaaarrrr. Orzammar! Orzammar? Orzammar. And tomorrow, he would be /in/ the great halls of Orzammar, pleading the case for the Grey Wardens. And to be quite honest, Alistair was scared to death about going. What if he said something stupid? What if the dwarves refused their aid? What if he was too tall and couldn't fit inside the city? How could any of the nobility take him seriously if he stooped around and duck-walked everywhere? Waddle-waddle-wit-wit! Waddle-waddle-wit-wit-!

Alistair shook his head violently, trying to shut up the troubling thoughts. **ENOUGH.** He was one of the last Grey Wardens and that alone should endow him with enough respectability to recruit ten dwarven cities (well…if there _were _ten dwarven cities). Besides, it not like he didn't know what he was doing. The party had been on their recruitment drive for nearly a year now. This was the _last _treaty to fulfill. He'd seen Lana do this so many times now…

Alistair chuckled bitterly as he triple-checked his armor bindings. He should just admit it. It wasn't the possibility of acting like an idiot before the dwarves that troubled him. Lana still refused to accompany him into Orzammar and well…

…after all this time and all their adventures, he'd never been on a mission without her. Ever since the Tower of Ishal, she had been by his side. Knowing that she would not be there—no Lana to watch his back, no Lana to talk idly with, no Lana to be Lana—well, what was the point of saving Ferelden from the Blight if there was no Lana around to save Ferelden with him?

_Will you stop? _a small voice demanded, _She just does not want to go through reunion drama, okay? It's not like she gave you a butter-knife, pushed you into the path of the Arch Demon and then ducked into a tavern for a drink. Maker!_

Well, no, probably not. Didn't make the prospect of trudging into Orzammar any more appealing though.

"Nothing I can do about it now," Alistair muttered. He slipped his sword into the sheath on his back and stepped through his tent flap.

There was Lana.

The rest of the party scurried to and fro through the camp, prepping themselves for departure. Morrigan stuffed new poultices into packs, Leliana filled quivers with frost-shimmering arrows, the elf styled his hair, Wynne rolled bandages…but Lana stood at the edge of the party camp, staring off into the mountains. Her lack of armor made her look incredibly small and delicate and again, Alistair felt the pang of She Wasn't Coming With Him.

As if sensing him, Lana turned away from the mountains to face him. In her hands, she clenched the last Grey Warden treaty. She was smiling, but it was incredibly strained. The expression on her face propelled Alistair across the camp in four quick strides. While he had planned to take her in his arms and hug her to his chest, his arms had fallen off somewhere and he could only give her a dopey look of concern.

"Hey you," Lana said softly with a nod of her head.

"Hello," he replied, feeling his IQ continue to drop.

"Are you um…are you ready to head out?" she asked. Alistair nodded, "Wynne and Leliana are going with you, right?" Another nod, "Well, then um…" she glanced down at the roll of parchment she held, "Good luck, I guess," and she held out the treaty for him.

Now, Alistair meant to say something along the lines of "thank you" when he took the parchment. He really did. He would heroically take the roll and heroically place it into his pack and heroically thank her and heroically call out to Wynne and Leliana that it was time to heroically leave and they would heroically leave and heroically tramp up and the mountain pass and heroically enter the dwarven city and heroically demand dwarven aid for their heroic battle against the Blight-

Alistair got as far as reaching for the treaty. Instead of parchment, his fingers found Lana's chin. Instead of heroically packing away the treaty, he tilted her face to meet his eyes. And instead of heroically saying "thank you", he selfishly said, "Come with me."

"I can't do that," she said hoarsely as she tried to pull away from Alistair's grasp, "You know I can't go back."

Alistair tightened his hold slightly and did not let her look away, "Why?" he asked curtly (which would have surprised him were he not suddenly so determined to have her come up the mountain with him).

"You know why!" she cried, her voice shrill (which, amazingly no one else in the party heard over the hustle and bustle of preparations). Again, Lana tried to pull away but Alistair still maintained his hold, "…Alistair…please…"

"Come with me," he repeated.

Lana began to cry. Normally, tears would cause Alistair to bluster and fumble and yes, apologize profusely, but today he just continued to bore into her eyes and not allow her to look away. He should've been horrified by his actions…but as it was, he didn't care. He was not going to Orzammar without Lana Aeducan.

"…an exile cannot return…" she said miserably, "…you should kn—"

Alistair cut her off, "That's not who you are anymore. You are a Grey Warden and cannot ignore your duty to defend against the Blight…no matter what the circumstances may be. And besides that…" he lowered his head to the point where they were nose-to-nose. He could've kissed her if he wanted to, "I can't do this by myself. _Help me—please."_

Lana remained quiet, save for a sniffle or two. Alistair continued to hold her chin and gaze into her tearful eyes. The other party members continued to scurry around, either oblivious to the two of them or simply choosing to ignore them.

Several eons passed. And then several more.

The tears trickling down Lana's face finally registered somewhere in the back of Alistair's mind and he let her go just as suddenly as he had seized her, "I'm sorry…" he murmured as she wiped at her eyes, "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have done that…I'll just um…uh…" he gently pulled the treaty from her free hand, "…I'll just go recruit now, okay…?"

"Okay," Lana said, her voice heavy with congestion, "Let me…let me get armored first and…and we'll go…"

Alistair blinked in confusion, "…what?"

"We'll go once I'm armored," Lana repeated and ran her hands over her face one last time, "You are right…I can't shirk my duty. Just…just…" she trailed off for a moment and turned her gaze back towards the mountains, "…don't let me lose myself there, okay?..."

Alistair had no idea what she meant by that. And while he was tempted to ask…he didn't. Instead he quashed an overwhelming feeling of awkwardness, held up the three fingers of his right hand in a mock salute and said, "By the honor of my bastardly parentage, I do solemnly swear to make sure that you are found at all times."

He'd hoped for a chuckle. Instead, Lana headed back to her tent, without a word. And while Alistair felt better knowing that she was going to come along after all…

…he wasn't quite sure if he'd done the right thing.


	15. Chapter 15:  Fool Me Once

Chapter Fifteen: Fool Me Once…

Orzammar 2:4

"You can't go home again."

~Thomas Wolfe

_Diplomacy lessons. Ug. She hated her diplomacy lessons. As far as Lana Aeducan was concerned, the best diplomat she knew was a shield to the face and a sword to the gut. After all, when she came of age she was going to be a Commander in her father's army. __**Trian**__ was the heir-apparent—he should be spending his afternoon trapped in a small room with dull tutor instead of learning something __**useful. **__Lana sighed irritably, stuffing more scrolls into her pack. An entire afternoon wasted at the Shaperate. What an unfair fate._

"_Lala?"_

_Lana turned to find her baby brother standing in her doorway, hands behind his back and looking sheepish. She smiled, despite herself. Any distraction from her impending doom was a welcome distraction._

"_What's wrong, Bhelen?" she asked, shouldering her pack._

"_Welllllllllllllllllll…" Bhelen glanced to the left, then the right, before deciding to toddle across the room to her. To her amusement, he still kept his hands firmly hidden behind his back, "I gots a secret, Lala," he said importantly._

"_Oh?" she kneeled down to be eye-level with him, "What's your secret? Can you tell me?"_

"_It's a bad secret," Bhelen tried to look SERIOUS, but his wide, proud grin ruined the effect, "Y'know how the surface people send us stuffs?" Lana nodded as she tried to nonchalantly (and unsuccessfully) peek around Bhelen's back, "An' y'know how Treen said he would murder us if we touched any of the surface stuffs he ordered?" Lana nodded again. If possible, Bhelen's grin became even wider and prouder as he brought his hands forward to reveal a small white box, "Y'want some, Lala?" he asked, removing the lid to reveal a boxful of (oh Ancestors!) stick candy…_

"Warden?"

Lana blinked to find Vartag Gavorn looking expectantly at her and holding out a sheaf of parchment. Oh yes. The party tried to circumvent the game of nug eat nug that masqueraded as dwarven politics and brought the treaties straight to the Chamber of the Assembly. Lana warned that such a direct approach would never work, Alistair insisted they try anyways, and surprise surprise, the direct approach did not work. And that thug Gavorn recognized her and now she was supposed to become an errand runner for her brother's lieutenant and-

"I'll…I'll look into it…" Lana said reluctantly, taking the documents…

" _**LANA."**_

_Lana groaned. She'd only been home from her lessons for what? Two minutes? Three? She had not even been able to put down her pack yet, and here stood Trian, arms crossed and jaw set, to welcome her home._

"_What?" she asked resignedly. Today's lesson had been especially dry. Her eyes felt full of grit and her brain felt overloaded. All she wanted was a nap, but apparently that small luxury was going to be denied._

"_Don't take that tone of voice with me," her brother snapped, "I know what you did."_

"_I went to lessons," she said, shouldering past him to get to her room, "Everyone knows what I did."_

_Trian reached out and snagged her pack, pulling her to a halt. Lana yelped and grabbed back at her pack, trying to pull it loose, but Trian held tight. "Stay __**out **__of my things," he growled, giving her pack a final yank, "Understood?"_

_Lana gritted her teeth, "I haven't been __**in **__your things," she said and yanked back. The cloth pack split down the middle and the study scrolls tumbled to the floor between the arguing siblings. With a curse, Lana let go of the pack and bent down to gather them back up._

"_Well, who was it then?" Trian asked her, dropping the carcass of the pack to the floor in disgust, "Bhelen doesn't like surface candies, so it couldn't have been him, now could it?"_

"Warden?"

Lana blinked to find Dulin Forender looking expectantly at her and holding out a set of passes for the Proving Grounds. Oh yes…

"I'll see what I can do…" she said, taking the passes in hand.

"_Bhelen?"_

_Bhelen looked up at her from the vicious fight his golem dolls currently engaged in, "Lala?"_

_She kneeled down and gently took the dolls from his hands, "Bhelen," she said again, "Why did you take Trian's stick candy if you don't like surfacer treats?"_

_The child's smile was beatific, "__**You **__like them, Lala!"_

_Lana smiled back and pulled her little brother into a hug, "Thank you for the thought…but please don't do it again, okay? Promise?"_

"Lana?"

Lana blinked to find Alistair looking expectantly at her and holding a mug of Mystery Dwarven Ale. On the table before her lay the documents from Gavorn and the passes from Forender. Oh yes…

"Thank you," she said, taking the mug from him.

Alistair sat down across from her and peered at both parchment and passes, "Are we decided yet?"

Lana sipped at her ale without answering.

_She couldn't sleep. She was too excited. No diplomacy lessons tomorrow! Tomorrow was sparring with Gorim and she couldn't wait to show him how she finally mastered that shield-bash trick. Oh, she would not be the one spending the majority of the day on the mat, ohhhhh noooo-_

"_But Treen!" she heard from outside her bedroom door, "Lala __**made **__me do it! She __**maaddee **__me!"_

_What?_

_Lana rose out of bed and quietly padded over to her closed door. She put her ear against the key hole and heard: _

"_I know, little one, I know," Trian's voice. "Just promise never to do that again, okay?"_

Lana slammed the tabletop with an open palm in frustration. Alistair started and winced as he banged his knee against the impossibly short table. Lana didn't notice.

"I can't _do _this!" she exclaimed and pushed the parchment and passes over to Alistair's side, "Here! You pick!"

Alistair stared dumbly down at the goodies before him. He picked up the parchment and studied it for a moment, pretending he could read the dwarven inscriptions (in his defense, they _were _upside down), before he set it back on the pile. At Lana's incredulous expression, Alistair shrugged.

"You know them better than I do, Lana," he said reasonably, "I mean, all I know is that Bhelen manipulated you into murder and he's a ruthless jerk so I don't see what all the debate is about…buuuutttt I suppose you're about to tell me that Lord Hairytrout drowns kittens and hates rainbows or something along those lines."

"_Harrowmont_, Alistair. Lord _Harrowmont."_

"Eh, close," Alistair said, shrugging again.

Lana resisted the urge to let her face also slam down onto the table. She settled for burying her face in her hands.

"Look," Alistair said after a minute, "Stop trying to think about this as if you're still Lady Aeducan. Try to think about it as a Grey Warden. Think about what would be best for the dwarves and best for battling the Blight."

Lana glared up at him from between her fingers.

"Okay, okay," Alistair said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender, "Just tell me what you have against Lord Hairytrout—"

"_**Harrowmont**__."_

"—as King and we'll go from there, okay?"

Lana raised her head and reached for her now tepid ale. She took a small sip and stared off at point just over Alistair's shoulder, "I have nothing against Lord Harrowmont," she finally said.

"But?"

"_**But**__…_" she sighed heavily and took another pull from the mug, "He's a good man and a kind man, but he is not a _strong _man. He compromises. And when he can't compromise, he runs," she shook her head, "We can't compromise with the Arch Demon, Alistair."

"But?"

"_**But**_…" Lana looked down to the tabletop and began to idly trace the damage to the wood grain with a fingertip. How could she explain that her Grey Warden sensibilities warred with the vengeance her Aeducan heritage demanded? Alistair was so sweet and charming and by the Ancestor's so incredibly naïve. How could she say-

"You just can't support your brother?"

She nodded wordlessly to hide her surprise and continued to fiddle with the damaged table.

As Lady Aeducan, she wanted nothing more than to plunge her sword into Bhelen's face, again and again, until he was nothing but a blob of pulp lying dead on the floor. She _hated _him.

_**Hated.**_

But if not for her exile, then she never would have become a Warden. Her days would be spent down in the Deep Roads with Gorim and her troops, battling an endless wave of darkspawn. Granted, there were worse fates for a dwarf in her position. Her father could have married her off, for instance. Being used as a bargaining chip to secure an alliance with another House or even Kal-Sharok? Ug.

But…

While she did miss Gorim terribly, as well as the home and city she'd been exiled from…if everything had not gone wrong during the raid at the thaig, she never would have met Alistair. And that was a fate she had no wish to dwell upon.

"I don't know what to do," she finally admitted.

To Lana's surprise, Alistair chuckled, "You'll figure it out," he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, "You always seem to, after all."

Lana wrapped her fingers tightly around his hand and also leaned forward on the table, resting on her elbows, "…I just make it up as I go along…"

Alistair chuckled again, but more softly, "…you're fooling me…"

And yes. She missed Gorim. She loved Gorim—she truly loved Gorim. But Gorim couldn't stay. Gorim wouldn't wait. Gorim was of the same breed as Harrowmont—good and kind—but in the end? Gone.

But Alistair?

He held her hand and introduced her to grass…he wrapped her shield grips with bandages until they finally found a shield in her size…he introduced her to hot chocolate, commissioned dwarven-sized armor for her, even saved her from the maw of a hungry dragon, for Stone's sake! He would follow her to the ends of the world, to the ends of time…always with a smile and a delicious drink. Alistair would never, ever leave her side and she was perfectly content to keep him there for all her days.

Lana leaned the rest of the way across the table and brushed a kiss across his lips.

Lady Aeducan never had the power to express her affection to those she loved. _**Warden **_Aeducan would never have that weakness.

She pulled back just enough to open her eyes (when had she closed them?). Alistair's face burned crimson and his mouth fishily gaped at her—open, close, open, close.

Lana smiled slightly and gave his hand a small squeeze, "So I fooled you did I?" she whispered and leaned in for a second kiss, "Good to know."


	16. Chapter 16: Lost in the Rain

Chapter Sixteen: Lost in the Rain

Orzammar 3:4

"The way to love anything is to realize it might be lost."

~G.K. Chesterton

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

The night Duncan and the other Wardens pulled her from the Deep Roads, it rained. Lana spent a miserable night sitting in the small tent they'd erected for her, hands wrapped around her knees and shivering. She'd never seen rain before—had no idea that on the surface, water fell from the sky. She'd been too embarrassed to ask the other Wardens what, exactly, was going on. Thus, she sat alone and scared in her tent, convinced the world was ending.

An embarrassing memory, to say the least. Understandable, yet still embarrassing.

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

When it rained during the Battle of Ostagar, Lana had been too busy fighting to notice. The crashes of thunder did make her want to dive under the nearest table and cower, but about seventy darkspawn stood between her and shelter. So she buried the fear, hacked apart the darkspawn, and moved on with her life. She was Aeducan. She would adapt.

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

The third time it rained, Gorim had been officially excised from her life for about two days. The afternoon had been comfortably warm for her, yet unbearably humid. Thunderheads rolled in from the east and, the party's luck always being what it was, the clouds promptly burst in the middle of setting up camp. And by the Ancestors, the rain was _cold_ and it _dripped _down her armor and _plastered_ her hair to her skull and she couldn't _see _and just _**sod it**_, she _**hated **_her new life on the surface. In frustration, she slammed her pack to the ground, fell to her knees, and started to cry.

Very un-Wardenly behavior, she'd admit. But at the time, it felt good.

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

And now, in the den of the freshly-slain Broodmother (oh, poor Laryn…poor, poor Laryn…), it was raining again. Impossible, Lana realized, seeing as how they were underground, yet that dripping sound was unmistakable:

Raindrops.

She heard them. By the Stone, Lana _heard _them.

But something wasn't right.

She saw the color drain from Wynne's face, saw that Wynne kept shouting something at her, but she heard nothing. She saw Oghren (and she remembered him from her previous life and still _hated_ him), take up his great axe and start to run forward…but she couldn't hear the clank of his armor or the curses he surely kept grumbling.

Just the dripping.

_Don't turn,_ a small voice whispered to her, _Oh, whatever you do, please don't turn…_

But Wynne kept pointing at something behind Lana's shoulder and the dripping noises kept getting louder and Oghren was about to hack something to pieces and Lana didn't want to turn, she did not want to turn, _she did not want to turn…_

She had to.

One of the Broodmother's tentacles had embedded itself into the far wall of the den during her death throes. The tentacle had neatly tacked Alistair to the wall, piercing through his chest plate. Blood trickled down the tentacle in neat little rivulets, dripping down to the cavern floor.

Lana felt the world end.

Oghren hacked at the tentacle, ostensibly to free Alistair. Wynne shouldered past Lana as she muttered one of her healing incantations. In her mind, Lana saw herself run past both of them. She saw herself knocking Oghren away and working the tentacle free from Alistair's chest herself. She saw herself catch him as he crumbled forward, hands weakly covering the gaping, oozing hole in his armor. She saw herself brush the sweat-matted hair out of his face, saw her whisper her farewells, kiss him goodbye…saw Wynne place a comforting hand on her shoulder, Oghren bow his head…

But in reality, Lana could only stand and stare.

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

Wynne said something to Oghren that Lana could not hear over the accursed dripping. With a final swing, the axe finally cut through, leaving only the tip impaling Alistair. Oghren dropped the axe, wrapped his hands around the meaty, rancid base of the tentacle tip and began to tug. Wynne held her hand against Alistair's chest, bathing it in a soft blue light…

_He's dead…_said the same little voice that had warned her not to turn, _By the Stone, he's dead…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

…_drip…_

There was a sickening sucking sound as the tentacle tip pulled free (and Lana heard it…somehow, over the deafening din of the dripping blood, she _heard_ it). Alistair collapsed forward, falling against Wynne.

…_he's dead…dead…dead…_

_(("Oy!" Lana started at the sound of Alistair's voice and scrubbed quickly at her eyes to hide any traces of tears, "It never fails! Every sodding time I have a good hair day, it rains," Alistair plopped down next to her, also sopping wet but __**smiling**__, "No cocoa for us tonight, eh?"_

"…_guess not…" Lana said quietly, hoping he'd just get up and be goofy and charming __**someplace else.**_

_No luck. Even worse, from the way Alistair studied her face, he knew something was upsetting her._

"_I got my tent set up before the storm hit," he said after a moment, "If you uh…if you want, you can hide in there and dry off until the rain stops…" he cast an annoyed glance in the general direction of his tent, "Maker knows Chopper snuck in and made himself at home…"_

"_I couldn't—" Lana started to say, despite how tempting the thought of a dry tent was._

"_Oh, yes you can," Alistair said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "You open the flap and walk in. Next to tramping grass, it's the easiest thing in the world. Besides," he leaned down and gave her a conspiratorial wink, "I have towwellllssss."_

"_Towels?"_

"_Mm-hmm!" he said, nodding proudly, "Dry towels, even! And don't you want to borrow one of my dry n' __**fluffy**__ towels?" his grin was positively wicked, "I promise I won't peek."_

_Lana wanted to argue and decline the offer, but she the rain was so cold and so wet and honestly, she was so miserable…_

"_Go on!" Alistair encouraged, giving her a slight shove in the tent's direction, "Partake of the towweeellllsssss! I will wait Right Here until you are good and towelful," he raised three of his fingers in a salute, "Templar's Honor."))_

The dripping sound has been replaced by the sound of slow footsteps and Lana was grateful for the change…until she realized that the footsteps she heard were her own. The other two paid her no mind—Wynne kept at her healing magic and Oghren watched behind her, hands on his knees. Alistair lay on the ground before her looking…well, positively _dead._

But there was a second sound now, one just out of time with her footsteps:

Ragged breathing.

Granted, it sounded too harsh and wet to be considered _healthy _breathing…but breathing was breathing was breathing, and the dead most certainly _do not _breathe.

The sounds of the rest of the world flooded back to her…the slight hum of Wynne's healing magic, the overwhelming thumping of her heart, the slight snort of disgust Oghren made as Lana collapsed to her knees with a small cry of relief…

"He'll be all right," Wynne said soothingly without bothering to look up from her work, "It's going to take me a little bit of time, but I'll get him patched up, so don't worry."

Lana tried to remember how to speak to thank the mage properly, but nothing came to her. Instead she nodded and brushed her fingers against Alistair's clammy cheek. Well, he still looked and felt like death warmed over, but if Wynne said everything would be all right…

"…didn't figure you to be the type to go all moony over a Surfacer…" Oghren mumbled as he straightened back up.

"Quiet," Lana snapped, mildly surprised that she had a voice after all, "This is your fault."

Oghren shook his head and went to retrieve his fallen axe, smirking the entire way, "If you say so, Aeducan," he said, "I personally have no recollection of going 'get the pretty boy! The pretty boy!' to what's left of Laryn here, but if you insist…" he shouldered the axe, "I will bow to your Warden Wisdom."

Lana clenched her hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. Too close. This had all been too close. And the prize they fought for was certainly not worth the price they kept paying. Ruck…Hespith…Laryn…

…Alistair…

"Oghren," she said quietly, a dangerous, completely-un-Lana-like tone to her voice, "If…no, when we find Branka…you better pray to the Ancestors she has a good reason for what she's done."

_(("…don't let me lose myself in there, okay?..."))_

Oghren rolled his eyes, "Or _what, _Aeducan?" he said, "You'll murderize her?" He nodded his head at Alistair's prone form, "Who is he to you anyway?"

…_he's all I've got…he's all I want…he's my everything…_

"He's my Second," Lana said curtly, "I expect you to treat him with the respect that title warrants."

Oghren blinked at her, once, twice and then burst out laughing. Lana scowled. Wynne pointedly ignored both of them, "I need a drink," Oghren finally said and started to pick his way across the cavern floor full of Broodmother pieces and dead darkspawn, "Between you Wardenizing and Laryn _eating _everyone…although I always said she was something of a slob…"

Lana ignored him. Instead, she forced her fist to unclench and went back to stroking Alistair's cold cheek. The hole remained in his armor, but she could see the flesh re-knitting itself under the influence of Wynne. That had to be a good sign.

It had to be…because she meant what she said about Branka. Paragon or no Paragon…nothing was worth the price they were paying. And if Wynne were wrong and Alistair did not pull through (who knows what's on the tentacle of a Broodmother what if he were poisoned what if it corrupted him what if his injuries were beyond the realm of Wynne's magic and what if what if what if…)?

By the Ancestors, Lana Aeducan would be lost.

_A/N: Sometimes, you just have to whump the crap outta them to show you care. _

_In other news, in personal Risu Cannon™, House Aeducan and House Kondrat (specifically Lana and Oghren), have some unpleasant history. Some day I may explore it in a drabble spin-off in the vein of "I Don't Care Who Started It"…but not today. Suffice to say, they don't like each other. (They'd be each other's "it's complicated" on Facebook)_

_As always, thank you for reading and THANK YOU for the very kind reviews. They really do make my day. ~R._


	17. Chapter 17:  Kinslayer

Chapter Seventeen: Kinslayer

Orzammar 4:4

"Revenge is a confession of pain."

~Latin proverb

Scabs _itched._

Alistair tried not to fidget, despite how he longed to reach under his steel chest plate and _scratchscrachscratch! _at the bandaging around his torso. While he was delighted at having survived Death by Broodmother, at the same time, he couldn't help wondering if death would be less _itchy. _Really, he didn't recall any members of the undead Redcliffe armies pawing at themselves, but in all fairness they were too busy trying to murder everything living. Maybe they just didn't have time to concentrate on the itchiness of death? Lucky slobs. Here in the Chamber of the Assembly, Alistair's only job was to Stand and Look Like a Grey Warden. He had _nothing _to distract him from thinking about all the burning tinglies of his chest. _N-o-t-h-i-n-g._

Not even Lana.

Not that he particularly wanted to think about Lana right now. If he thought about Lana and how…_distant_ she looked, standing there, holding the crown Caridin forged for the new king…if he thought too much about to whom Lana meant to award that crown…if he thought too much about how unfair it was of the Assembly to peg their problems on the princess they exiled…if he thought about how he dragged her back to Orzammar on the promise that he would not allow her to lose herself and then promptly allowed her to lose herself…

_((Caridin was gone. Branka lay dead. The Anvil so many had suffered for had been shattered. Their little party now had a fabulous return trip through the Deep Roads to look forward to, hopefully with even __**more**__ darkspawn to hack through. Yipee._

_What a terrible time they were having._

_Lana stood at the precipice Caridin had oh-so-recently tossed himself over, staring blankly down into the lava pits. She clutched at the newly-forged crown with both hands and for a moment (just a moment!) Alistair thought she just may chuck it in after Caridin. Then what would they have? No Paragon or trophy to break the stalemate. Would the dwarves continue their in-fighting until the Blight swept them away or would they just kill each other? _

_Alistair didn't want to find out, so he reached forward and placed his hand on Lana's shoulder, "Are you okay?"_

_She didn't even turn to look at him—just kept staring down into the pits, "Alistair," she said softly, "We saw the Arch Demon, didn't we?"_

_The memory of leather wings and hell-song had faded somewhat with the overwhelming memory of near-death by impalement, but Alistair nodded, "Yes."_

_Lana looked down to the crown she held, and an expression of pure hatred crossed her pretty features, "…and this will solve all our problems…" she whispered hoarsely, and again, Alistair thought she was about to throw the crown. He tightened his grip on her shoulder._

"_**Lana**__…" _Please don't let this be in vain, _he silently begged, _**Please.**

_He felt her shoulders tense. Alistair started to reach for the crown with his free hand, desperately hoping his catching skills had improved since the last time he played stick ball in the Chantry court…but she didn't throw it. Instead, she hugged the crown to her chest and sighed wearily, "I have to give this to Bhelen," she murmured, more to herself than Alistair, "I'll just have to…"_

_Now Alistair tensed. He knew that his personal opinion of Bhelen Aeducan—that he was a scheming, manipulating, lying __**prat**__—went against his Grey Warden training that preached PRAGMITISM. Yes, between Bhelen and Hairytrout (what _was_ his name?), Bhelen seemed the quicker to decide and act. He wanted to rearrange the caste system to give those poor slobs in Dust Town a fighting chance and he wanted to open up Orzammar more to the surface. Surely all sides would only benefit!_

_But Bhelen was a scheming, manipulating, lying __**prat**__ and no matter how many strategic-advantage-spins were placed on the man's candidacy, Alistair just could not support him. And when Alistair thought of how readily and wantonly Bhelen destroyed the life of his older sister, just for the privilege of sitting in a fancy chair…_

_Well, pragmatism did not hold up well against unholy rage._

_But if Lana chose to support Bhelen (the scheming, manipulating, lying __**prat**__), Alistair would stand by her decision. So instead of shaking her wildly, berating her for having no common sense and then checking for fever, Alistair simply said, "If you think that's best."_

_Lana turned to look up at him and something about her expression left Alistair wondering if maybe the shaking option would have been a better choice. Just…something was wrong with her eyes…they looked…looked…_

_Flat._

_No regret, no heartbreak, not even any tears. Just…empty, flat eyes._

"_Be careful not to rip open your chest wounds," was all Lana said as she walked past him, still tightly hugging the crown to her chest, "It's a long trip back."))_

And now here it finally was: the Moment of Truth. Lana would hand the King's Crown to her younger brother, granting Orzammar a king. Said-king would then _finally _give them the military aid dictated by the Treaties and they could _finally _get the sodding hell out of Orzammar.

_**Finally.**_

So Alistair stood slightly behind Lana, and did his best to look as Grey Wardenly as possible. All the deshyrs of the Assembly stared at Lana expectantly. Bhelen even started to step forward a bit as he fought back a grin of triumph.

Everyone was six words away from peace.

"I give the crown to Harrowmont."

Okay, well, not those six.

Frantic whispers and startled gasps filled the Assembly Chamber. _"…did that Warden just…?" _and _"…Harrowmont? Really…?" _But Alistair paid no attention to the whispers. Instead he watched as Lord Harrowmont straightened his shoulders and made his way down the steps to the waiting crown (when had Lana passed that to the Shaper?). Alistair watched him kneel, watched the Shaper place the crown upon his head…and a niggling little Warden-sense made Alistair glance back to Lana.

She was not watching the proceedings. Instead, she looked at her younger brother. No, not just looking—their eyes were _locked_ on each other's. The two siblings stared at each other and Lana was smiling…but not the sweet, small smile that peeked at Alistair from behind the rim of ale mugs…no, this smile was thin and predatory and by the Maker, _nasty._

Again, he found himself reaching for her shoulder in hopes of restraining her, but this time he was too late. With a scream of rage, Bhelen flung himself towards his sister, sword in hand. She sprung forward with a laugh (a _**laugh**__!)_, leaving Alistair grasping at empty air.

And then, well, all hell broke loose. One moment he was standing in the clear, just an arm's length away from Lana. The next, angry dwarves swarmed around him, all bent on killing each other, be it with walking staffs, hidden daggers, or rolls of parchment. He could only watch helplessly as Lana (still laughing), smashed her shield into her brother's face.

To his credit, Bhelen didn't fall despite the obvious pain of his newly broken nose. Instead, he spat out a wad of blood and broken tooth and swung his sword in the direction of Lana's head. She easily blocked the swing with the shield and shouted something taunting at Bhelen that Alistair couldn't clearly hear. But whatever it was caused Bhelen's face to flush even redder and his attacks grew more frantic.

"Lana!" Alistair shouted over the din, pushing aside struggling deshyrs as he tried to get to her, "Lana, wait!"

She couldn't (or wouldn't) hear him.

"_Get out of my way!" _Alistair snarled at the nearest deshyr and pummeled him away with his shield, "_Lana!"_

Like Lana, Bhelen Aeducan had received combat training during his youth. However, unlike Lana, Bhelen never planned to put it to much use. Fighting was for Dusters and he was a _prince. _He would fight in the _intellectual _Provings while others could roll about in the muck, stabbing at each other like barbarians. Why should he fight for his life when there were so many underlings to do it for him?

This wasn't to say he didn't know the proper steps. Only a fool would seek a life in the royal court without a side-arm to accompany him. Bhelen memorized the parry-parry-thrust routines his star-struck tutors had drilled into him. He might not relish physical fighting, but he was certainly prepared for Royal Combat of any kind.

…except with his own sister.

Lana was _not _fighting him according to the Established Rules. Dammit, when he _swung, _she was supposed to _dodge. _Instead, she pounded at him with his own Aeducan shield (**how **had she gotten that? **HOW?)**. She didn't wait for him to regain his composure, but kept stabbing at him with quick, precise thrusts with her (obviously enchanted and thus ILLEGAL) sword. And, by the Stone, she kept _laughing. _She would not stop laughing!

"**Shut. Up!" **Bhelen ordered as he ducked the frosted blade (but received another bash to his mid-section from the shield). He stabbed wildly in her direction, but she easily parried. And justlikethat! with a flick of her wrist, her blade snagged his sword by the hilt and it was up, up, flying through the air and away from him. She watched it arc across the Assembly for a moment, but before Bhelen could take advantage of the distraction, he felt the edge of her sword against his throat.

He gulped and willed his knees to stay locked.

Thankfully, Lana finally stopped laughing. But that horribly _nasty _smile was back.

"Tell me," she said quietly, leaning forward a bit so that he might hear, "Tell me, Bhelen: was it worth it?" She swung her sword back.

Alistair saw Lana disarm her brother and then saw the sword draw back, "_**LANA!**_" he shouted futilely, knowing nothing would stop her now-

The frosted sword snapped forward, neatly cleaving Bhelen's head from his neck. His body stood stupidly upright for a minute, and then, noticing there was no more brain to send signals, the knees buckled and it fell forward with a wet plop. Alistair didn't see where the head fell, nor did he care. At the sound of Bhelen's body hitting the Chamber floor, the fighting stopped and the angry dwarves stared at the corpse in astonishment. He picked his way through the masses with ease.

Lana stood over the corpse of her brother, still posed in her final strike. Alistair didn't even think she saw him approach.

"Lana?" he whispered.

She continued to stare at where Bhelen's face had been moments before, nasty smile still tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Alistair kneeled in front of her, careful of the blood-soaked sword, "Lana," he said again, a bit more firmly. He grabbed both of her shoulders and gave her a slight shake, "Lana, _look at me."_

Still no acknowledgement.

Alistair wondered briefly if slapping her would cause his head to join Bhelen's…but a moment passed, then two, and the flat look left her eyes. She still did not lower her sword, but she _saw_ him kneeling before her now.

"Are you okay?" he asked, giving her shoulders another small shake. She nodded wordlessly. "Are you sure?" Nod. "Okay. Okay. Are you ready to leave?"

"I killed him," she said, instead of nodding.

Alistair glanced back at the corpse bleeding all over the floor, "Yes, yes you did. Won't Morrigan be proud."

"I enjoyed it," she said simply, as if he had not spoken. Her sword wavered.

Taking no chances, Alistair pried the sword from her unresisting hand and laid it flat on the ground. He could sense the deshyrs and new king creeping forward, vying for a better vantage point to gawk at the gruesome spectacle.

"Alistair?" she asked in a small, child-like voice, "Did we get what we came for?"

From the corner of his eye, Alistair saw the newly-kinged Hairytrout give a small nod. Alistair hoped that meant "Yes! Our troops are your troops!" and not "We are going to bloodily massacre you as soon as you get back to your feet!"

"Yes," he said, picking up her sword and standing up, "Do you want to go now?"

She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. He doubted it was comfortable (especially with the steel snarls from the hole in his chest plate digging in to her scalp), but he pulled her closer.

"Take me home," she pleaded in the same, slightly sing-song voice, "Please take me home."

Not caring who saw, he placed a small kiss on the top of her head, "Your desire is my command," he murmured and began to lead her back to the Assembly exit.


	18. Chapter 18:  Unexpected

_A/N: Weird formatting issues (hopefully) fixed, 8/16.~R_

Chapter Eighteen: Unexpected

"I try to talk to you, but I don't know what to say. I am afraid you don't want me to say anything. So I don't. But inside of me there are words waiting to come out. And tell you how I feel-like how I miss you. And how I love you despite my broken heart. And how I need you in my life. And especially how much I want you. But those words may forever stay in my heart-locked inside. Sometimes I wonder if there are words locked inside you too... but I'll never know." ~Unknown

_Say it._

Alistair stood stupidly outside of Lana's tent, one hand partially outstretched towards the flap. He'd lost track of how long he'd been standing there, in this awkward position. He did know that when he first decided to man up and march over, the moon was sorta over _there_ and now it was kinda over _here…_so it had definitely been a while.

_Just. Sodding. Say. It. Open the damn tent, stick your head in, be all, "Lana! I love youuuu!" Easiest thing in the universe, right? Right? C'mon, on three: onnnnneeeee…twooooooo…_

…_twooooo…_

…_…_

With a snort of disgust, Alistair let his hand fall back to his side. Yes, just open the tent flap and blurt everything out. That would go over extremely well. What was the back-up plan for when Lana, in a half-sleep, mistook him for darkspawn and filled his face full of flying knives?

Alistair shook his head and began to make his way back over to the tall oak by the entrance to camp (after all, it _was _his watch). He'd tell her tomorrow. He'd feel much braver in the morning! Yes! While Morrigan prepared the party's breakfast (and apostate-bitch or no, wow, could she cook), Alistair would saunter up to Lana and calm and collected like and be all, "Lana! I love youuuuu!" and life would be _grand_, life would be _awesome, _life would be…be…

Oh, who was he kidding.

Alistair leaned against the oak and began to slowly and rhythmically allow the back of his head to thud against the rough bark.

…_thud…_

…_thud…_

…_thud…_

It was surprisingly therapeutic.

Why couldn't he do this? He'd slain a _High Dragon, _for Maker's sake! He'd buried his _brother! _He'd found (well, _helped _find), the sodding Urn of Sodding Sacred Ashes! He'd fought _werewolves _and _Broodmothers_ and _minions of the undead_ yet he didn't have the courage to tell Lana Aeducan he loved her.

Why?

It's not like it was a personal surprise or anything. Alistair hadn't spent tonight merrily guarding the camp, only to be suddenly overcome with love for his fellow Warden. How long had he loved her? A while. A **long **while_. _End of story.

_Yet you've said nothing. Tell her you're a possible heir to the throne? Nooooo problem! Tell her you love her and live for her and long to see that small smile of hers every moment of your existence? Yeeaah. Problem._

Alistair slid the rest of the way down the oak in despair.

In two days, they would be at Redcliffe. There, they could hand over the new Army of Ferelden to Eamon and then do…whatever. Hopefully, the Arch Demon would do them all a favor and just pop in and be all, "Hi guys! I'm gonna eat you now!" If not, well, then Eamon would probably call that Landsmeet and then nag at Alistair to assume his brother's place on the throne, and then Alistair wouldn't have to worry about being eaten, but rather being puppeteered and manipulated and told what to do and who to wed and to choose a wife who could pop out heirs like a reloading crossbow…truth be told, Alistiar would rather be eaten.

But either way, if he didn't tell Lana before they reached Redcliffe, he'd never have the chance. In one scenario, he'd be digesting in dragon tummy. In the other…well, princess or no, Alistair couldn't see how the Landsmeet would allow their king to wed a _dwarf._

"So don't become king," he muttered to himself as he began to trace idle patterns in the dirt by the base of his tree, "Get eaten instead."

Something rustled.

Alistair immediately pushed all self-pitying thoughts aside and rested his hand against the hilt of his sword. The rustle had come from just outside the camp. And the last time something rustled outside of camp, they had been nearly overrun by shrieks. Perhaps this time it was the darkspawn tax collectors…?

Alistair began to push himself back up against the tree trunk. The rustle could still be a bird or rabbit or other cute, fuzzy creature. It didn't necessarily have to be a tax collector. But when were rustles in the forest ever something cuddly? Alistair straightened the rest of the way up, began to pull the sword free from the sheath on his back—

-and was promptly tackled by something small, fierce, and _noisy._

Tiny, dirty fists pummeled at his chest and face and pulled at his hair and ears. Alistair tried to block them with one hand and fumble for his sword with the other, but whatever was on him just kept _hitting _and _slapping _and _clawing-! _He couldn't even tell who or WHAT his assailant was, in between getting hit in the face and the mass amounts of red hair everywhere…

Wait, _red hair?_

Well, it wasn't darkspawn, that was for sure. From the noise it kept making, it could've been a banshee but—

"-how-could-you-how-could-you-how-could you-!"

Okay. Enough.

Alistair gave up on reaching for his sword and instead gathered both of his hands together inside of the mass of attacking red hair and _shoved. _Whatever was on him flew backwards with a surprised squeak. He waited for it to regain its composure and just hop right back and start whacking at him again, but it remained sprawled on the ground where it landed.

"Oyyyy," Alistair rubbed at his face and sat up to get a look at the tax collector.

A small, dirty female dwarf glared back at him.

Wait, what?

Completing forgetting that moments before this dwarf had been intent on murdering him, Alistair reached a hand out, "Hey, hello. Um…need a hand up?"

She slapped his hand away and tried to stand on her own. She couldn't. She hit the ground again with an indignant huff, and tried to cover her indignation by pushing the hair out of her face. She was pretty, Alistair supposed. Her features were broader than Lana's, yes, and there was a brand on her face that he unfortunately recognized...and she was covered in dirt and her dress was ripped and her red hair was a tangled mat, but she was still pretty.

"I hate you," she said.

Alistair blinked, "…okay," he said after a moment and held his hand back out again, "Are you hurt or anything?"

She slapped his hand away again, but didn't try to stand this time, "I hate you," she repeated, "I don't even know you, and I hate you."

"…um…"

The dwarf pulled her knees up to her chest and watched him through narrowed eyes, "Harrowmont took my son. Did you know that?" Alistair shook his head, because well really, how would he know that? The dwarf smiled grimly, "He said it was out of respect for King Endrin…how his grandson should not be raised by a whore from Dust Town…the last Aeducan deserved _better_," the dwarf looked at him sadly. Alistair found himself starting to feel sorry for her, even though he had absolutely no clue what she kept prattling on about, "The co-conspirator of a _kinslayer_ is more fit to raise my son than his _mother. _And then I'm banished to the surface like a criminal. Taking my son isn't enough, I suppose…" she trailed off and stared out past the party camp, into the night.

She looked pitiful…all sad and matted and broken. Alistair held his hand out to her again, an offer brewing in his mind. They could wake Morrigan up early (surprisingly far less dangerous than trying to cook himself). After a hot meal, maybe Lana or Bodic would be awake and this dwarf could talk her woes out to them…probably make far more sense for them. She could join the party, even! Granted, she looked too small to be able to wield anything stabby or blunt, but at the very least she'd have a place to be warm and safe and-

His train of thought was cut off as she slapped his hand away for the third time. The two stared at each other in silence for a long while.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"…what?"

"Your name," Alistair repeated, "I'd feel better talking to you if I could call you something other than 'hey you'."

The dwarf considered that for a moment, "Rica," she finally said, "I'm Rica."

"Alistair," he said with a nod, "Good to meet you."

"I just tried to kill you."

He shrugged, "Happens a lot. You get used to it."

"You killed Bhelen."

"Wellllll," Alistair rubbed at the back of his head, "Actually, _I _didn't, but he was something of a prat, so—"

"He's my son's father."

Alistair winced. So much for trying to earn Rica's trust. What should he do next? Tell her the Chantry rhyme about how you should never trust a redhead, due to them being Desire Demons in disguise? Maybe he could spit on her while he was at it. Or remark about the brand on her right cheek? Or maybe…

"It was self-defense," he found himself saying, "He attacked Lana first."

_Yes, good, that's right. Just leave out the part about how she started the fight and that horribly __**nasty**__ smile she had when she cut off his sodding head._

Rica ignored him, which was probably for the best, "I loved him," she said, "With everything I had, I loved him…"

And Alistair really didn't know much about who Bhelen Aeducan had been. He had known that he considered the prince to be slimy and manipulative. He knew Lana hated him and if _Lana_ hated him, well, that was good enough for Alistair. By the Maker, that man murdered his _brother-_

_No, Lana killed Trian. Remember? She __**told **__you she killed him._

"He wrote me letters…" Rica said dreamily, "Such beautiful letters…and you should have seen his face when our son was born…he cried, if you can believe that."

Alistair could not.

"And now he's gone…he's gone, and I have nothing left," Rica hugged her knees tightly, resting her chin atop her filthy skirts.

Alistair watched her sit there, just as pathetic as could be, and could think of nothing to say.

"You could come with us."

Both Alistair and Rica gave a start. There, just off to the side in her nightclothes, stood Lana.

Alistair gaped at her stupidly, "What?" he blurted.

All the pain and misery drained from Rica's form to be replaced by a seething hatred. Alistair couldn't tell if Lana noticed the switch. He'd bet that she had, but she'd been full of all sorts of surprises lately…not all of them good.

"I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you want," Lana said, stepping across the grass towards Rica, "Bhelen earned his reward."

"No one deserves to be murdered like that—" Rica started, but Lana cut her off.

"He _did," _Lana knelt down next to Rica and placed her hands on the other dwarf's shoulders, "You didn't know him like I did."

"You didn't know him at all," Rica retorted, wrenching away, "Else you never would have given the crown to that usurper."

The two glowered at each other. Alistair marveled at just how far the politics of Orzammar truly reached. Would they never be rid of Bhelen supporters or angry citizens? Well, at this rate…

"You would defy the will of a Paragon?" Lana asked and for a moment, just a moment, Alistair wondered if he could hear a bit of wryness in her voice, "I did as the Ancestors bade. You can understand that, can't you?"

Rica eyed her for a moment, before nodding reluctantly. Lana smiled. Not that _nasty_ smile that heralded Bhelen's death, but that nice, sweet smile Alistair loved.

Lana leaned forward, careful not to touch Rica, "Let me help you," she said quietly, "I know how terrifying the surface seems…plants everywhere and rain and it's so cold…no dwarf is truly meant for this, but here we are," and just like Alistair had done three times before, Lana offered Rica a hand, "You don't have to be scared anymore…you don't have to be alone. _Come with us."_

To Alistair's astonishment, Rica actually seemed to be considering Lana's offer. The hatred drained from her face, but was replaced by a pitiful-looking type of confusion. She started to reach for Lana's hand, but stopped just shy of her mark.

Lana didn't close the gap.

"…Alistair?" Rica asked quietly, never taking her eyes off Lana.

Alistair leaned forward, despite himself, "Yes?"

"Do you love her?"

Lana's hand fell a fraction of an inch as she tried to hide her surprise. Her gaze shifted from Rica to Alistair, and now she bore a confused expression as well.

And for the first time in well…forever, Alistair didn't feel like his tongue was too big for his mouth or that he was dying or anything of the like. Instead, he allowed his eyes to lock with Lana's, "Yes," he said without hesitation, "Yes, I do."

Lana's hand fell the rest of the way down.

Rica studied the two of them for a moment, before rearranging her skirts so she could stand. Neither Alistair nor Lana paid her much mind.

Well, that wasn't quite how he meant to say it, but in the end, if it got the job done…

"…I hope it was worth it…" Rica said in the same quiet voice. With a swish of tattered skirt, she padded back into the night, disappearing into the forest.

Alistair swallowed heavily. _Yeah…so do I…_


	19. Chapter 19: Until the Seas Run Dry

Chapter 19: Until the Seas Run Dry

"If I should die this very moment

I wouldn't fear

For I've never known completeness

Like being here.

Wrapped in the warmth of you

Loving every breath of you

Still in my heart this moment

Or it might burst…"

~ "Gorecki", Lamb

Truth be told, Alistair felt all of about, ooooh, five.

The party should've been at Redcliffe Castle roughly two days ago. Instead, they were still camped about half a day's march away. And it was Alistair's fault.

To be blunt, he couldn't stop puking.

Never had he felt so embarrassed in his life. Just, one moment all was fine and dandy with the world, and the next he was leaning over a small briar bush, revisiting every meal from the past year. His innards felt squeezed and smushed and smashed. The first time it happened, he blamed Morrigan's cooking. And well, he blamed the Bitch the second and third time as well.

But by the fourth, he began to worry. Had he been poisoned? Was the Taint catching up with him early? Wynne kept assuring him that nothing was wrong, but by the _fifth _time even she began to look concerned.

So the party stopped and had stayed stopped as they waited for Alistair and his stomach to come back to speaking terms with one another.

And by the Maker, the whole incident was mortifying. What kind of Grey Warden got laid up by a stomach bug? What would Duncan have said? More importantly, what would Lana say when Alistair finally worked up enough courage to peep outside his tent?

…Lana…

Alistair felt his stomach clench again, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the worst.

Nothing happened.

Fortunately.

He sighed in relief and flopped an arm across his eyes. Oh, Lana. The two of them hadn't spoken since the awkward confrontation with Rica nearly three days before. Actually, Alistair still wasn't quite sure what to make of the entire incident. Rica asked him a simple question

_(("Do you love her?"))_

which he'd answered honestly

_(("Yes. Yes, I do."))_

and he

and Lana'd spent the night together. Oh, not doing anything the Chantry forbid, ooohhh nooo, nothing like that. Just a really REALLY awkward, well, sleep-over was probably the best way to describe it. After Rica's melodramatic exit into the night, Lana sat herself down next to him under the oak tree. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned her head against his chest.

And they just…stayed like that.

No words. No nothing. They sat together, occasionally nodding off, waiting for the sunrise. When the rest of the party awoke, Lana silently disentangled herself from Alistair and made preparations to move out. A few hours later, Alistair found himself with his face hovering above the pricker bush.

"…oy…" he murmured hopelessly.

Well.

At least he was starting to feel a bit better. The party could probably move on to Redcliffe in the morning. By this time tomorrow, Alistair could very well find himself in a nice, comfy bed complete with blankets and pillows and other fluffy sleeping aides. And wow. With Isolde gone, he could almost be _guaranteed_ a bed—

Under his arm, Alistair winced. Bad thoughts, baaddddd thoughts.

But yes, tomorrow would mean an end to camping outside, an end to the Bitch's cooking, an end to Chopper eating his socks…basically, an end to the life he'd known for over a year now. The armies were gathering, the Blight was approaching…pretty soon this entire war would be over and done with.

Thank.

The.

Maker.

Tomorrow, a servant would prepare his dinner. Tomorrow, he'd be eating at a table. Tomorrow, he would no longer be Alistair, but instead the last Theirin and Eamon's deus ex machina of an heir—

Alistair groaned. Ohhh, those were more bad thoughts. But he knew the moment they stepped foot in the castle, Eamon was going to whisk him away and start prattling about heritage and honor and kingly kinging king-stuff and what Alistair wanted, what Alistair desired, what Alistair needed was all going to be subverted in the interests of raising Ferelden up to—

"Alistair?"

Alistair cracked open an eye and from under his elbow peeped at his tent flap. And there, clad in a simple tunic and trousers, holding what appeared to be a stew bowl, stood Lana.

Alistair squeaked. It was the only sound he felt capable of making.

Lana simply gave him a small smile, "I wanted to see how you were feeling," she said and nodded at the bowl she carried, "I brought you some broth. May I…?"

Alistair scrambled to something resembling a sitting position, "Cu…come in…" he managed to get out, "Please…uh, sit and um…be comfortableeeeeeeeeee…lish."

Lana took a tentative step into the tent and amazingly, she looked just as nervous as he felt. Her eyes were _sodding huge. _Like, they took up most of her face type of huge. Had they always been that big and Alistair just never noticed? No, that would be highly unlikely, considering he'd spent so much of their journey staring at her and watching her and gazing at her and thinking about her so that her image lay imprinted in his very brain matter and if a darkspawn cut out his heart, they'd find it had molded itself into a perfect imitation of her and by the Maker, his thoughts were rambling and hopefully he wasn't speaking them out loud because he'd just die of downright embarrassment and or stupidity or maybe both and then, well, who knows what would happen but at least he could be certain that right here and right now that no, oooh nonono, Lana's eyes were never and had never been so large or shiny or nervous or unblinky…ing.

Maker, she just kept standing there, staring at him! She looked absolutely terrified. Her hands were shaking so badly that the broth kept slopping over the bowl's rim, leaving red burn welts on her fingers. Alistair wanted to stand. Honest, he did, he really _really_ did. He wanted to push aside his tattered blankets, stand, cover her hands with his, take away that soup bowl and then…

…and then…

Alistair felt his mouth moving, but no sounds were coming out. He imagined he looked like a gasping fish. He certainly felt like one. And, insanely enough, Lana was nodding slightly as if in response to whatever it was that he _wasn't saying. _And his mouth kept moving and she kept nodding and shaking and staring and he kept trying to force his body into standing but only managed to somehow get his left leg and right arm tangled in the blanket and _Andraste's breath, _he kept not-talking and she kept nodding…!

_This is so stupid, _the one sane voice in Alistair's soul said.

The soup bowl dropped and shattered, hot broth seeping into ground and blankets.

"Yes," Lana agreed in a small, yet firm voice, "Yes, it is."

And before Alistair could fully comprehend that the sane voice in his head hadn't been in his head after all, everything became _Her._

_She _straddled his waist and _She _kept tangling her fingers in his hair and _She _kissed him and kissed him and, oh Maker, _She _kissed him anywhere: mouth, cheek, shoulder, throat, temple, ear, nose—

-and _She _was everywhere! He felt _Her_ everywhere. He felt _Her_ tugging his hair, he felt _Her _grinding into him, he felt _Her _pressing into his chest and he felt how warm_ She_ was and how soft_ She_ could be and he felt _Her _becoming his everything—

-and he felt like an idiot, he truly did. _She _was so delicate and perfect and he felt himself to be made up of nothing but _hands—_

"…i love you…" _She_ murmured after each kiss, "…i love you…i love you…i love you…" 

_-_and he grabbed the frayed edges of Lana's tunic and with a quick upwards yank, it was gone. And _She _stopped kissing him and just _looked _at him, again wide-eyed and expectant. And now his were the hands shaking as he traced over the scars and bruises that marred _Her _and now his fingers were turning traitorous and sliding towards those places he'd never assumed he could touch and ooooh Maker, he just wanted this to Be Right-

"…Lana…?" he asked, somewhat surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

_She _only nodded.

-and, oh hell, Alistair saw the Edge, sauntered right up to it and bloody well _leapt._

He drew _Her_ close, kissing _Her _frantically, and feeling his mind go giddy. _She _tasted of cinnamon, of cloves, of warm honey…of promises made and promises kept…of hope and desperation…of anything, everything that could possibly matter in the universe-

-and yet he knew that nothing mattered, nothing at all…not the Blight, the waiting throne, or even Redcliffe because there was _Her _and only _Her_ and with _Her _there could only be This Moment, This Right Here and Now, and it could never end and would never end because he, the very last Theirin, would never allow it…he would stay with _Her, _and _She _with him, interlocked and entwined and the world would crumble around them and _She _would still envelop him

_(as she did now)_

and they would still move together

_(faster)_

And they would meld into one Perfect Being in one Perfect Moment and there could never be any Release, nor would there be because that would End Everything—

-Alistair cried out at the injustice of such a thought, and Lana clung to his shoulders, already trembling—

-and he felt The Moment fading and he wanted to grab at it and pull it back, but This was the Here and Now and This is where _She _was…

So he let it go.

Alistair collapsed back upon the wad of sweat and broth soaked blankets, utterly spent. Lana, still clinging to his shoulders, collapsed down with him.

He felt…raw.

His throat felt chewed up, his muscles were jelly, his limbs lay useless and his lungs couldn't quite figure out how to process the oxygen he kept trying to feed them…but at the same time? Alistair finagled his floppy arms over the small yet wonderful, perfect, exquisite, beautiful, beloved woman against his chest. He felt so alive, so…so…

_Complete._

It took him a moment to fully comprehend just what the two of them had done (the clothes scattered in odd locations in his tiny tent were a dead giveaway), but when everything finally clicked, Alistair could just grin.

"…y'know," he said slyly as he successfully commanded his jelly arm to raise enough to allow his fingers to trace the intricate scarring along Lana's back, "According to all the Sisters at the Monastery, I should've been struck by lightning by now."

He could _hear _the smile in Lana's voice, "It could still happen."

"Sure," he conceded with a grin of his own, "But if you get hit by the lightning afterwards, it hardly seems like an effective deterrent."

_And the powers of mere lightning has nothing on Lana Aeducan, _said that sane voice from earlier.

And before he could even wonder whether or not the dastardly sane voice had spoken aloud for him again, Lana released one of his shoulders from her grip and her hand was back in his hair, giving it a playful tousle. She looked up at him, flushed and sweaty and by the Maker, so unholy beautiful…he swallowed.

"To think," she said in the same mischievous voice, "That was only the first try."


End file.
